I Got You

by TheTinKicker

Summary:

He was the living manifestation of destiny, the definition of an impossible mission. He got the job done and she had utter faith in him to save the world whenever it was required.
Ilsa, however, had no faith in herself. The more she thought of the choice, the more impossible it felt and she became more and more vexed at the beaten down expression looking back at her. She could be trusted to take a life on command, but not perform this task which some might consider basic? Those who would stand as far back as the sidelines, that was.
How do I do it?
The question would not leave her alone and just became more and more intensified like a pressure cooker. She felt like her brain was inflating from the inside and not because of the pressurisation of the commercial airliner on which she was travelling. She felt the internal forces building and building, ready to break through and cause the most explosive of decompressions.
Just how do I ask out Ethan Hunt?

#

Following on from the events of Fallout (2018), Ilsa Faust must confront her feelings for Ethan Hunt while also investigating a near-disaster in the skies above Europe. Are there remaining sinister forces at play? Will she finally get her man?

Notes:

New chapters will be posted every Monday and Friday! Hope you enjoy! :)

Chapter 1: The Fallout

She couldn’t comprehend it. It was unfathomable. The impossibility of the choice bearing down on her shoulders with the weight of the world. As if there was an elephant on her back, crushing her shoulders. She felt like she was being pulled in both directions, while strapped to a continuously rotating wheel. In front of an audience expected to witness a circus demonstration. One blindfolded performer preparing to throw the knives as the target rotated. The dizziness becoming unbearable.

              Ilsa Faust looked at herself in the mirror. The bloodshot redness in her eyes - from a lack of sleep, jetlag and general wearing out from a life choice - impossible to miss. Even with the drips from the water splashing in the sink beneath partially obscuring the pane. She gripped the corners of the sink, bowing her head and clenching her eyes shut before pinching the bridge of her nose to hopefully drive more focus back into her senses and look at herself again.

              Nope! It didn’t make the slightest difference and she hissed through clenched teeth. She just could not compute the conundrum. Why was this being so fucking difficult for her? Especially a woman with her training? Taken on by MI6 straight from the orphanage. Trained to kill on command, ask questions later when it was too late and no one would give a shit about the psychological toll. All the while, she was expected to be just as indifferent.

              Her training, then her experience infiltrating the infamous Syndicate and the path to which it led her. Ultimately encountering her most difficult opponent. It wasn’t an organisation or a person. It was her own psychology. An iciness within her had thawed before completely melting and leaving her with nothing but uncertainty.

              Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

She did? And she ran the risk of losing what little she had in this cursed and corrupt world. She didn’t? And she may live the rest of her life with utter regret. She always did her best to not think about the lives she’d taken for Queen and Country…if anyone even still believed in that? It’s not like Her Majesty was going to live forever, regardless of how some people felt.

              What was bugging her in this instance, however, was not anyone dead, but one man who was living. He was the living manifestation of destiny, the definition of an impossible mission. He got the job done and she had utter faith in him to save the world whenever it was required.

Ilsa, however, had no faith in herself. The more she thought of the choice, the more impossible it felt and she became more and more vexed at the beaten down expression looking back at her. She could be trusted to take a life on command, but not perform this task which some might consider basic? Those who would stand as far back as the sidelines, that was.

              How do I do it?

              The question would not leave her alone and just became more and more intensified, like a pressure cooker. She felt like her brain was inflating from the inside and not because of the pressurisation of the commercial airliner on which she was travelling. She felt the internal forces building and building, ready to break through and cause the most explosive of decompressions.

              Just how do I ask out Ethan Hunt?

 

There was a knock on the door and she shuddered from the surprise. Gasping, Ilsa was yanked from her thoughts with such inconvenient suddenness. She exhaled loudly through her nose and said aloud that she was almost done.

There was a nervous and equally vocal assurance from the other side. A middle-aged male, likely one of the hired mercs to keep an eye on the prisoner being transported aboard the aircraft.

The fact she put the fear of god into one of those hard-assed guys, let alone those with such training and experience - not all that different from hers really - made Ilsa feel like she came across as a cunt. Some sort of withered-out cretin. Her self-esteem shot down just like that when she spent the last ten minutes in the bathroom to try and build it as high as possible.

              Thanks a fucking bunch!

              She snapped the latch back to ‘vacant’ and yanked the door open for dramatic effect. She was keeping herself as calm as possible, going back to her training for more tense theatres of war. Ilsa was just feeling petty. She begrudgingly nodded at the beardy guy with a buzz cut and the most indecipherable tattoos on his bulky arms and brushed past, making her way through the galley and into the passenger cabin. Did he get those in Indochina without even knowing what they meant?

              Is it even called Indochina anymore…?

              It was how Ilsa knew that she really needed some proper rest as soon as possible.

              Each of the two dozen rows running along the aluminium tube had three seats on either side of the aisle. Most were unoccupied but there was clear division. Those who killed because they were told to, and those who killed because it was the last resort. The absolute last resort. It was why she was more comfortable with the latter, in spite of spending more time with the former.

Ilsa was making her way from the forward part of the airliner, all the way down to the rear where the remaining members of the IMF were seated. Where the morality seemed to commence. Where she felt the most at home, the home she only recently found.

Luther Stickell and Benjamin Dunn, two of the most skilled tech experts Ilsa ever had the pleasure to have known and become fond of as coworkers – even if their partnership in this line of work was more on a ‘seasonal’ basis. They were seated on either side of the aisle in the same row, their faces aglow with the screens of their respective laptops. They were lost in a zone of their own creation and it worked for Ilsa perfectly. They wouldn’t interrupt her and the one guy sitting on his own a few rows further ahead and slightly closer to her position, and by himself.

Ethan…my love…

Only he didn’t know it and it was Ilsa’s responsibility to tell him. He was trained to read people when on a mission, but not only was she trained to be impossible to read, the mission had been completed.

A third of the world’s population saved from starvation and an irradiated glacier, Ethan himself being in a trance of relief. Copious weights lifted simultaneously. He finally managed to have the conversation with his former wife, Julia Meade. A career of nursing suddenly uprooted due to falling in love with the forefront of world peace. At least a decade of guilt alleviated by her more adventurous line of work around the world tending to the most vulnerable. A new husband, a new life.

It all worked out in the end, for some, Ilsa supposed.

She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the fact that Ethan had been married previously and never mentioned anything. Granted, she only knew Ethan for about two years by then and before that reunion in the decimated men’s room in the Paris nightclub, their last encounter was in the underground parking garage in London.

When her notorious boss and rogue agent Solomon Lane was captured ‘for good’ the first time.

That didn’t stop her from thinking about Ethan during self-pleasure sessions in the time since, however. She would often use her imagination, having only seen his chest when assigned to torture and interrogate him in the London catacombs, as well as resuscitating him in the Moroccan sewers just six months later. She would allow her brain to run wild, all the while imagining him going down on her and then proceeding to rest his body upon hers and warming each other while moving to the next stage of intimacy.

Taking me…making me his…

She figured over time that enough distance and utter lack of encounters would sate any feelings over time.

Time heals all wounds…right?

Ilsa could never have been more wrong. Things only intensified from the moment she saw him again in the nightclub bathroom. The disappointment of him not deciding to give it all up and come with her returning and feeding a mix of love and anger. She made sure to let him know of her displeasure of his fixation with the mission at hand mere minutes of them reuniting.

“You should walk away,” she remembered him saying.

“You should have come with me,” she then retorted. She meant every syllable.

Then again, hindsight is 20-20. Had he done as she said, then the world would likely be in the midst of a third global conflict. The Siachen Glacier irradiated. A region as heavily-contested as Kashmir becoming the centrepoint for the nuclear holocaust. India and Pakistan. Two former British colonies-turned-mortal enemies. Both with nuclear armaments. Oppenheimer’s worst nightmare.

It helped her let go of the resentment which had been preventing her from fully realising her feelings for him. It was a disadvantage, in a way. The hate evaporating. Now? She didn’t just want a one-nighter to forget about the bloody life she’d chosen and wanted to fully discard. She wanted Ethan Hunt for life.

For her life.

Learning of Julia’s existence was like a kick in the guts. Ethan had fallen in love before, had made the commitment before, only for the harsh reality to be shown. People in their line of work couldn’t relax and be happy with other people so long as they remained in the business of taking life for the sake of preserving all the others.

If Luther had said nothing to Ilsa in the London safehouse before the journey to Kashmir, Ilsa would never have known of Julia’s existence, nor her lasting legacy. She wasn’t exactly forthcoming to him about her own personal life or past, but it was still devastating.

It meant Ethan had a solid case study and example as reasoning to never accept a woman into his life ever again so long as he remained with the IMF. Not only that, but now he was fresh from an example as to why he had to keep going. To keep fighting for the greater good.

The greater good.

He isn’t going to retire anytime soon. Ilsa felt it as she continued down the aisle that it would be the only time she would ever do so when approaching Ethan. No wedding bells, no vows, no rings on fingers and no passionate consummation of the marriage that night.  

If she said something, to spill her guts to him, then it would ruin her connection to the only person she could actually talk to. Luther told her to walk away if she cared for him, but she immediately did the opposite. She didn’t want to see Ethan get hurt. Whether she got to have him or not, she couldn’t live with herself to see him die. He had to keep going, not only for the world, but for her.

She would be losing her best friend.

Then keep your mouth shut, woman.

 

“You really think it’s all over,” the familiar and equally nauseating voice then broke through the fabric of Ilsa’s dreams and nightmares. The supposed sanctity of her imagination and ability to shut everything and everyone else out when needed.

              There was a certain raspiness to it, a fracture from decades of exposure to the depths of depravity of the world. Of humanity. A disdain of the system gained.

              The thoughts had consumed her so vividly, Ilsa was still among the first five rows of seats, merely a fraction of the way down the cabin. She was in the section being reserved for the package being transported. The prisoner. The worldwide pariah responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths and potentially millions more. The instigator of civil wars and fatal chemical leaks.

As well as the disappearance of passenger airliners over oceans.

              Ilsa paused and slowly turned to glare at him coldly.

              Between two muscly mercs in black polo shirts with biceps ready to rip through the fabric, was seated the package in a straightjacket. His hair and beard still as overgrown as they were when he was broken out of prisoner transport in Paris.

              Solomon Lane. Head of The Apostles - the artist formerly known as The Syndicate.

              “What was that?” she sarcastically shrugged with a sigh.

              “I just find it amusing,” he menacingly smirked, his eyes like that of a doll, or a shark. Ink black and lifeless.

              “What could you possibly find amusing? The world and millions – if not billions – of people have been saved. You’ve been beaten for the final time, what could you find so hilarious?” Ilsa retorted, finding a tiny fistful of confidence. They would be on the ground in London in less than an hour, after flying across the Middle Eastern and European continents all day with several stopovers. Then Lane would be back in MI6’s possession and no one else’s. Out of everyone’s lives, sights and minds.

              However, Ilsa had to admit that there was always that glimmer of uncertainty. Was it really going to end at that?

It was like how the First World War was going to be ‘over by Christmas’ and referred to as the war to end all wars. Hindsight can be brutal. Her mask of confidence was falling just as quickly as it had manifested and Lane took more glee and a wider grin. He could see straight through her.

              “First it was The Syndicate, then The Apostles,” Lane continued, a theatrical shrug in his shoulders and it caused his shackles to rattle, still tied together through the latch fixed to the floor between his feet.

“It’s like Macedonia in Eurovision. We’ll just pick a new name and keep going. Regardless of which side of the bars I may reside. Walker – or Lark - was just another one of my patsies, albeit a qualified one. Just because he’s lying in the wreckage of a helicopter with a face burnt to the bony skull doesn’t mean I won’t have him replaced. There’ll be more. More of us surgeons to cut away the rotten flesh of this cancer. A cancer which has spread no thanks to you and that blind and foolish American you care so fondly about!”

              “Hey, shut up mister, or you will be gagged,” one of the mercs barked, nudging Lane in the ribs with his elbow and excessively so. Long flights with several legs can be exhausting, even for the best trained in endurance. The frustration has to be let out somewhere and it’s not like Lane would have human rights activists following him around like puppies.

              “No, let him talk,” Ilsa said calmy, raising a hand to tell them it was perfectly fine. “He’s just a sad old man talking to himself, because he cannot accept defeat.”

              “Old man?” Lane snorted, mildly offended.

              “Well, it’s not like there’ll be much living where you’re going,” Ilsa shrugged.

              “Speak for yourself,” Lane snarled. “You of all people should know what I’m capable of. There’s no corner of the world anyone can go to, no spot where they can hide without me getting to them some way or another.”

              Ilsa said nothing, finding it more and more impossible to disguise her marinating fear.

              “You,” Lane then hissed, his chains scraping and clinking as he leaned forward to get that bit closer to her. To make sure she couldn’t ignore the gaze he already knew was frightening the living shit out of her. Nothing could give him more pleasure in that moment. Even the most attractive woman arriving to go down on him. He had her by the strings.

“You, Ilsa, of all people, should know that you’ll be travelling in an aluminium tube for several more hours. Most of which will be over the Atlantic. No one to come and rescue you or your beau, should anything unfortunate happen.”

She felt her balance giving way. Only momentarily but enough to scare her. She gripped the heads of the nearest seats in her grasp that bit tighter. She clenched her teeth within her concealed mouth in a futile attempt to show strength.

“Shut up!” the same merc repeated, with greater volume, and gave Lane an even sharper elbow in the gut which sent Lane bowing over and clutching his torso in pain. He continued growling and hissing through his teeth, with a mixture of cackling.

Ilsa just kept pacing, keeping her breathing under control as she rapidly approached the one part of the aircraft in which she actually wanted to sit. The middle seat right next to Ethan. He was gazing out of the window at the various lights emanating from the dark abyss below. It was probably one of the cities of Northern France. All that was left was the English Channel and then the gentle descent into London. Then the exchange and the rest of their lives.

All of our lives.

She allowed herself to exhale as she settled into the seat, brushing shoulders with Ethan. She felt his head instantly moving in reaction. She was already leaning against him and she didn’t care about the reactions of any onlookers.

“Hey, is something wrong?” he whispered, his gaze now focused on Ilsa rather than the window.

Ilsa was gripping his hand with both of hers tightly. He could feel the physical tension and worry. She was topping it off by resting her head on his shoulder and picking a spot on the folded seat tray directly in front to look at and stare in silence.

The white noise of the consistent thrust emanating from the Boeing 727’s turbofan powerplants, set at cruise power, continued to purr and buzz throughout the airframe.

She said nothing.

Ethan could only put an arm around Ilsa and hold her.

Chapter 2: Bad Vibrations

Summary:

Great, Ilsa thought, they could now get this deal over with. Pull Lane out of one trunk and dump him in the other. They could maybe throw him into the river, tied to a rock? It was a fun thought in Ilsa’s head. A fittingly horrible way for a man who had inflicted so much damage upon the world and humanity to meet his maker.

What were those words?

“The greater the suffering, the greater the peace.”

However, her more pragmatic side had to take a step back and accept that the deal was Lane alive, no exceptions.

Lane had to remain living, so she could as well.

Did she even have much to live for in the first place?

Ilsa found it a difficult question to answer.

*

Before continuing on with the flight back to U.S soil, Ilsa and Ethan oversee the prisoner exchange, where the entire night begins taking unexpected turns.

Ilsa kept her hands shoved in her pockets to deal with the chill she was feeling. She wanted to tell herself it was the Northern European climate, but that was nowhere near a decent excuse. She was a native of Sweden, a nation which knew more about harsh winter climates than anything the UK could ever come close to learning.

She wondered if it was time she should admit to herself that it was more of a psychological chill than a physical one. A result of Solomon Lane sending the shivers through her more so than any Arctic blast ever could. For a man who kept demeaning terrorists by saying they merely wanted to instil fear, he was quite good at the act himself.

It was night-time and she was feeling the effects of jetlag already in spite of the journey only being half over. She could just stay in London but she had no reason to. She was no longer with MI6, as part of the deal for Lane. She wanted to be here to witness it. To see Lane truly handed over to face the music. Who knows where he’d end up. In prison or some dungeon in a fledgling republic and getting urinated on. She frankly didn’t care at this point. She just wanted him gone.

Out of sight, out of mind.

              Then again, she couldn’t be sure whether it’d actually work like that. Ethan was out of sight for more than two years but was never far from her mind. It wouldn’t qualify as a long-distance relationship since there had been no romance established between them, but Ilsa felt her respect for couples who had to endure such distance skyrocket.

              “She’s here,” Ethan then commented, curling his arm around Ilsa’s to keep her close and warm. It was a friendly gesture but Ilsa willingly interpreted it as something much more. He was keeping her safe and comfortable, exactly what she needed from a man. True, she was well-trained to deal with difficulties from both genders, but she saw relationships as meaning to be escapes from the world. A world which was difficult enough to live in already. If romantic relationships were just to be another battle, then what was the point?

              The railings of the nearby metallic fence overlooking the riverbank became coated with white and then red light. They watched as the black sedan pulled up and one of two women they’d be meeting that night by the river stepped out from the back. Erika Sloane, the straight-talking, no-bullshit Director of the CIA. She was less accustomed to the surrounding air and seemed to still be recovering from the testy climate of Kashmir. She sneezed and placed her hand on her chest before nodding at both of them.

              “Shouldn’t be too long, now!” she called over at them as two bodyguards stepped out with earpieces and formed a crude perimeter on either side of the car. Erika was keeping her distance from the couple and neither Ethan, nor Ilsa, were complaining.

She was on their side now, but she wasn’t in the beginning. She had been the one handling Walker. Who anyone could’ve considered as being the man. The one who would get shit done. And they would be right most of the time…it was just a bit more questionable when it came to the side of the fence on which he’d sat this entire time.

              Ilsa glanced up at Ethan, who just glanced back at her and gave a reassuring smile. He then provided her with a tiny massage on her upper back. She wondered if he was secretly blaming Erika for Hunley’s death. Did she know those armed agents would turn in the London safehouse? It could be an unfair question but how could they be certain? Ilsa looked across at Erika, who gave her a stare back. She could detect the former MI6 agent in the corner of her eye. The sedan’s engine remained running and the tail-lights were creating a red ominousness across the face of the CIA Director.

              ‘I can make your freedom happen…or I can make it not happen, just try me,’ Sloane’s eyes seemed to say.

Ilsa saw no less coldness and calculation than she did with Lane.

              Could he have just been tormenting her out of pettiness? Maybe he knew that his freedom really was gone forever and he just wanted to deliver one last form of torture to Ilsa for the fun of it. At least someone was having fun?

              Ilsa hadn’t the time to properly think about it some more as another set of lights invaded their pupils. Ethan had to lift his hand to shield his vision briefly. Then the blinding white beam died somewhat as the car’s engine was killed and the familiar blond-haired woman in the white coat stepped out. Alanna Mitsopolis, the daughter of the infamous and  departed arms dealer, Max. She was accompanied by her brother and business partner, Zola, who stepped out of the driver’s seat. He scanned the faces looking back at him with cold precision, not caring that one of them was running one of the – if not the – strongest intelligence apparatuses in the world. It was just a job. A deal and money to be made.

              Great, Ilsa thought, they could now get this deal over with. Pull Lane out of one trunk and dump him in the other. They could maybe throw him into the river, tied to a rock? It was a fun thought in Ilsa’s head. A fittingly horrible way for a man who had inflicted so much damage upon the world and humanity to meet his maker.

What were those words?

“The greater the suffering, the greater the peace.”

However, her more pragmatic side had to take a step back and accept that the deal was Lane alive, no exceptions. Lane had to remain living, so she could as well.

              Did she even have much to live for in the first place?

Ilsa found it a difficult question to answer.

              She didn’t have time to ponder this question either for too long as her dread was replaced by utter alarm. Alanna skipped straight up to Ethan and Ilsa was begrudgingly willing to accept a simple peck on the cheek, but The White Widow had other ideas.

              Straight on the lips.

              Ilsa let go of Ethan’s arm with utter contempt and disgust, her eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. She looked over at Erika and even the Director was wincing. It was insanity, utterly depraved. Ilsa had seen plenty of horrifying sights in the field, but this was really getting to her in a truly exceptional way. She knew deep down why, and was easily allowing the jealousy to consume her judgement.

              It wasn’t just at Alanna’s heinous action, but Ethan’s acceptance of it. He wasn’t smiling per se, but he didn’t look half as alarmed as she did. It only added fuel to an already intense inferno gathering strength within every fibre of her being.

              “I think Mr Hunt would like the opportunity to breathe, if you don’t mind…Miss!” Ilsa assertively interjected, curling her arm around Ethan’s and even pulling him back towards her just a millimetre or two, but enough to throw off The White Widow.

              “My apologies,” Alanna moaned in a whisper, wiping the side of her wrist across her lips and stepping back. Then she made the ruthless move of licking her upper lip and continuing to stare at Ethan, who just gave an awkward smirk. “I just find myself becoming very passionate when with exceptional company.”

              Alanna then glanced over at the party pooper named Ilsa and had the feeling that the intense goldenness emanating from Ilsa’s eyes weren’t reflections from the nearby streetlamps. She then shivered and quickly commented on the cold night.

              “Without further ado, I suppose,” she sighed, making her way over to Erika and the two shook hands. Erika then signalled her bodyguards to reach for the trunk. It was time for the exchange.

              “First Julia, now this…thing? You’re really on a roll,” Ilsa muttered under her breath.

              “What?” Ethan spluttered, frowning and snapping his gaze over at her.

              “Nothing,” she shrugged, folding her arms and pettily looking out at the sparkling effects of the city lights against the surface of the water.

              “She’s helping us with this exchange, what’s the problem?”

              Ilsa returned her glare to him and made a face of her own. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you there too when she practically walked over and bit your face off like it was the bloody prom or whatever it is you Yanks call it?!”

              “It was a bit excessive, I’ll admit,” Ethan shrugged.

              “Excessive? Inappropriate would be more fitting. You’re meant to be business partners.”

              “We,” Ethan then said coldly and bluntly.

              “Excuse me?”

              “We, plural,” Ethan sternly explained, turning towards her and Ilsa could see the iciness in his eyes. It was a sight with which she was neither familiar, nor comfortable. It was quite scary to see in the moment. “

“As in we are business partners. Not just Alanna and I, but me and you. Through said partnership, we managed to take down The Syndicate or Apostles or whatever Lane wants to call what’s left of the group while he rots in prison.”

              “Partnership,” Ilsa repeated, deflation and defeat in her voice.                

              “A rather successful one, let’s not take anything away from that?” Ethan then suggested, to put an end to the conversation. “Oh, and just so you know? I don’t appreciate you bringing my former wife into this whole…whatever it is you were getting at.”

              As far as Ilsa was concerned, he’d detected why she had such an issue with Alanna’s move and was freaked out, but dealt with it as maturely as possible with some firmness as a topping. From a neutral perspective, Ilsa would understand but she couldn’t be neutral in this particular case.

              She was devastated.

              The trunk belonging to The White Widow was slammed down with Lane inside. That was that, apparently. Ethan gave Erika a look of gratitude, a nod was returned and more car doors began slamming shut and accelerators depressed.

              “I’m sorry,” Ilsa blurted aloud with a break of regret in her voice.

              “We still have a flight to catch,” Ethan then said quietly. “May as well keep going.”

              “Lead the way,” she whispered.

              Ethan did so. Their arms no longer linked.

 

Two hours later and the airliner was levelling off at thirty-three thousand feet of altitude. Ten kilometres, as it followed the curvature of the earth, while hurtling through an atmosphere of lesser density. A faster speed with more economical fuel usage. The Boeing 727, with its three turbofan engines clustered together at the rear fuselage and leaving its wings naked and streamlined, was pointed firmly in the direction of North America.

              It had the remainder of the European continent and then the Atlantic to transit across, first, however.

              As soon as they hit cruise altitude, it was safe to use the bathroom. Ilsa made sure she was the first. She’d elected to sit on the opposite side of the aisle to Ethan this time during departure. He was giving her a quizzical look initially but then seemed to accept it with relative ease. This just upset Ilsa even more. Did he even really care for her? Ilsa then wondered if she was being immature in feeling hurt by this.

              They both knew that it was a rough life and it required thinking like some lifeless Entity for the sake of survival. Ilsa just thought there had been something different here, like maybe there was some sort of exception to the rule.

              She thought of the 1977 hit from the New Zealand group Split Enz, where they all dressed as circus performers. She felt like one, playing the fool. She thought there was something more with Ethan, other than the mission at hand. She took the risk to save his life more than once. She couldn’t risk him getting hurt, no matter how much it could harm her own objective or personal safety. But she thought that there was a bit more there. Just that tiniest glimmer of hope.

              As the song went…that was my mistake.

              “Well bloody done, Faust!” she hissed at herself in the mirror. The drips from the faucet’s previous usage had dried on the surface of the mirror itself. It made her feel even more dirty than she already did.

              Maybe this was for the best? Perhaps she was better off finding out Ethan’s true feelings towards her right then and there? She’d just gained her freedom from The Syndicate and MI6. She even said it to Ethan herself – forget about it, there’ll always be another. They’d done their part. It’s just a matter of going.

              There were still four hours to Gander, Newfoundland before the final refuelling stop and then it was a straight shot to the US. There might be some debriefing needed and then it was whatever she wanted. At first she was daydreaming of a dinner with Ethan, maybe a movie…but now those thoughts made her feel like a naïve schoolgirl.

              America is a big country, sky’s the limit. What was stopping her from jetting off further to Hawaii? The beautiful bright blue sea and pristine beaches. The palm trees, the skirts, the exotic experiences.

              Ilsa desperately thought that such images would lead to a smile reflecting from the mirror but she was disappointed once again by the reality. It didn’t matter where she went or what she did. It would all be nothing without the most important thing. The who. No one to share it with. Especially not being able to share it with the one person with whom she wanted to share it.

              Her teeth clenched.

              She wanted to punch the mirror. Or headbutt it. Whichever she decided.

              She heard the click of a nearby door opening and closing. Sounded like the flight deck door. Then she was interrupted by a knock on the one right next to her.

              She growled and it transitioned to a calmer sigh. “Just another few minutes, alright?”

              “Sorry, ma’am!” the American accent swiftly replied. “Please, there’s no hurry whatsoever!”

              She suddenly felt bad for hogging the bathroom. She didn’t actually need to go. It was merely her sanctuary during this intercontinental journey, which was becoming more and more arduous, for as many psychological reasons as there were physical.

              She felt especially worse for denying a member of a cockpit crew a bathroom break. Ilsa didn’t consider herself the foremost expert on aviation but she knew enough about the aircraft on which she was now flying. The Boeing 727 was designed and introduced in the golden age of jet travel. No computer-assisted flight. All cables and levers with the help of hydraulic fluid and pure skill. Less automation. The engines were still manually operated at all points in the flight and the autopilot only being used for cruise flight. Everything else was done by the human hand.

              That was on top of the aircraft being designed for short-to-medium haul and not a transatlantic flight. Anything could go wrong in the middle of the crossing and what was there to do about it? No nearby airport. Only the ocean below.

              It didn’t help that it was also pitch black outside. How far down?

              Ilsa glanced up at the single overhead light in the cramped cubicle. The ceiling curved on one side to account for the fuselage. She felt even more lonely. Isolated. As if she was in the middle of the darkened ocean herself. Ilsa figured she was technically still over either UK or Irish territory, prior to the Atlantic, but her mood was overwhelming.

              There was another click on the door beyond the bathroom one. The flight deck door. The member of the crew deciding to return to his seat and feeling guilty about having interrupted a lady in a vulnerable position. She sighed to herself and decided that it was time to just bloody well get on with it. What was the phrase? Keep Calm And Carry On? It was for her to figure out in due time.

              She ran the tap briefly and watered her face, a tiny puddle accumulating around the drain.

              The water rattled. A bit of a turbulent pocket.

              Then the water began bouncing in its own symphony, not draining at all. Ilsa spun her head all around and could hear and feel the creaking in the aluminium skin beyond the interior fittings. The vibrations were becoming too pronounced to possibly be turbulent. Something was wrong. Desperately wrong! She could feel her feet sliding to the starboard side of the cubicle, in the direction of the door. Her hip ended up by the doorframe and she was terrified of the latch failing and her tumbling out into the galley.

              Her vision was blurring already, the aircraft itself violently shaking.

              And rolling over to the right.

              Lane…

              It has to be! He always knows what’s going to happen!

              …where’s Ethan?

Chapter 3: Fade To Grey

Summary:

She heard the creaking and groaning of the airframe screaming in pain. If the fuselage were to break apart from overstress and accelerating beyond its design limits, they would be ejected into the outside atmosphere. Far less oxygen at this altitude, as well as thinner air in general. It makes for efficient flying, but not efficient operation of the human body.
The brain loses blood and oxygen and along with it, critical performance. The lungs simultaneously expand from any remaining air inside to the point of rupturing like balloons. Ilsa reckoned in that moment as the realisation hit her, that it was a matter of whether she would be fortunate enough to be knocked unconscious from the lack of oxygen first? Or experience the misfortune of being conscious enough to feel her body practically rupturing from inside out?
Did she consider herself lucky? She managed to find Ethan Hunt somehow in a sea of 3.5 billion, after all. However, this was in a sea of misfortune in itself. The various outside forces working against them since the moment they met.

The roll was reaching ninety degrees and Ilsa Faust’s fear levels skyrocketed by ninety-nine percent. The intensifying vibrations were creating a buzz, causing her brain to rattle inside her skull. She felt like the cubicle was a motionless bubble, just hanging in a point in space and time. She didn’t know which way was left, right, up or down. She was moving her arms and hands in all directions, scrambling and hoping to get some sort of hold onto anything. Even a flat surface would do. Anything!

              The Pratt and Whitney turbofans were mounted all the way rearward on the tail end of the fuselage, and yet Ilsa could hear them screaming as if they were right next to her. This was amid the creaking and rattling reverberating throughout the skin. She knew that the aircraft fuselage was no thicker than a penny. Thin and light, yet strong enough to endure the strains of constant flight and pressurisation. Additional stress like this has been known to cause in-flight destruction of the airframe.

              Not even mentioning the fact that the 727 was from a previous era of jet travel and design. Several lessons had yet to be learned about what could happen when exposed to more extreme elements, than those which could be deemed as conventional.

              That would mean all onboard were to be dead meat unless someone did something miraculous, Ilsa figured. However, she couldn’t consider herself as someone who believed in miracles. In spite of all she witnessed since meeting Ethan Hunt and the IMF, she would’ve been lying to herself in that very moment if she considered herself optimistic.

She heard the creaking and groaning of the airframe screaming in pain. If the fuselage were to break apart from overstress and accelerating beyond its design limits, they would be ejected into the outside atmosphere. Far less oxygen at this altitude, as well as thinner air in general. It makes for efficient flying, but not efficient operation of the human body.

              The brain loses blood and oxygen and along with it, critical performance. The lungs simultaneously expand from any remaining air inside to the point of rupturing like balloons. Ilsa reckoned in that moment as the realisation hit her, that it was a matter of whether she would be fortunate enough to be knocked unconscious from the lack of oxygen first? Or experience the misfortune of being conscious enough to feel her body practically rupturing from inside out?

Did she consider herself lucky? She managed to find Ethan Hunt somehow in a sea of 3.5 billion, after all. However, this was in a sea of misfortune in itself. The various outside forces working against them since the moment they met.

              How was Ethan himself going to go? A lifetime of saving humanity and the world at the expense of his own happiness and freedom…and for what? Only for it to end like this? A freak incident mid-air?

Was it even an incident or accident? Ilsa shook her head as her vision continued to blur, the overhead light beginning to flicker.

There was no way this was some random coincidence. It just couldn’t be! Lane had to have had something done to the aircraft! Paid off or blackmailed a maintenance worker? Terrorists had their ways, even after 2001. Ilsa envisioned a wing having already been blown off and her perception of time had simply slowed down as part of the process of dying. No one really knows what it’s like until they experience it, after all. By the time they can describe it, they’ve already passed onto another world.

              Will the next world be better? Could she end up in an alternate universe in which she and Ethan find each other, still? Perhaps they meet in college, as innocent students pursuing what they both wanted to study from day one. They begin dating, spending the night at each other’s dorms when their roommates are out partying and risking ruining their lives with unwanted pregnancies or liver poisoning. They graduate together, getting their first apartment together and eventually arguing over whose turn it is to take out the garbage or feed the cat.

Or does Ethan prefer dogs? Maybe both?

              Ilsa may not have known about the “why” for the time being but she certainly knew what was happening in that particular moment. She could feel the aircraft lurching over, the bank angle becoming too extreme for the plane to stay in flight. It was pitching over and being dragged into a spiral dive. As if the right-hand wing was being caught on a branch, pulling it around. Any stress the fuselage was already enduring was now going to be amplified tenfold. Diving at the ground and the speed picking up way beyond the sound barrier. Fitting for a stealth aircraft or a fighter. Not a commercial airliner.

              Her senses were also taking a dive. Her vision was rapidly approaching the status of being non-existent, as was her balance, like she’d just downed a bottle of vodka. She was no stranger to her senses being dulled in that particular context. Ilsa having done that before more times than she cared to admit, when alone in her London flat and wondering what the fuck she was doing with her life. This time it wasn’t from a pleasant numbing and escape but from a hellish and brutal way of fate deciding not to knock on her door but rather kicking it down.  

              The blood was rushing away from her brain. Too little for it to cope. Like it was running on empty. No fuel remaining. On fumes. Soon it would be unable to do the job it’d been doing for than a quarter of a century and shut down. She had to act now. The plane had to be saved somehow and whoever was meant to be doing that was clearly not doing a good job. How did it end up like this in the first place? Ilsa tried to force as many analytical thoughts into her head at once. She clenched her teeth, just keep her brain going, get some blood and focus back in there! She had to keep going. She had to keep fighting. To save the plane.

To save Ethan.

              Alanna probably would’ve bailed out through the rear airstairs like D.B Cooper by now.

              Lane…

              Fucking leech.

              The latch!

              The first of the two things standing between Ilsa and access to the controls. The second being the latch for the cockpit door. The 727 was built forty years before the destruction of the Twin Towers. The door should be much easier to open from the outside. Even if it wasn’t, Ilsa was willing to put every single ounce of her strength into breaking it down. She didn’t care if she would later be tried for attempted aircraft piracy. When the jet was in danger, the lives of all aboard were in equal danger, including her own. For once, Ilsa began to value hers a lot more. It was time to act. The consequences could wait until the epilogue.

              She reached down and to her right, feeling herself sliding up the wall towards the ceiling in response to the dive. Gravity was an absolute arsehole, cursed Ilsa. It was dictating the forces being placed upon her and hampering her ability to act. She felt grateful to be the type to keep her fingernails trimmed. It was practical for her line of work, handling weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. She grasped with her fingertips to find the horizontal handle fixed within a circle on the edge of the door.

              Ilsa could only feel the flat surface of the door instead. She grunted with immense frustration through her clenched teeth. She swiped her hand up and down the door, moving in irregular circles . Her heart was pounding and ready to break free from her chest and splatter all over the opposite wall. The sweat dripping profusely from her temples.

              They were spiralling, she was continuing to drift further away from the corner and up towards the ceiling. She gripped the doorframe, her fingertips barely able to squeeze through and find a hold. She used it to pull herself back down towards the floor. The colour had been drained from her vision. It was just black and white now. She was on the verge of transitioning from greying to outright blacking out. Once that happened, she and everyone else aboard was royally fucked.

              Her ears were beginning to hurt from the spike in pressure. The earth’s surface was approaching with disgusting speed, as was the thicker atmosphere. It was a normal sensation for someone who travelled the world regularly and accustomed to steady and procedural descents to their destination. This particular fall to the ground, however, was anything but steady. She likened it to The Bends experienced by scuba divers. She could feel her eardrums ready to burst out in either direction. She wanted nothing more than to press her palms against either side of her cranium and cradle herself somewhat, but that was far from an option…

              She found it!

              One hand gripping the frame and the other feeling around. She gripped the horizontal latch and she snapped it clockwise and the door released itself. Ilsa felt herself being flung outside and across the floor, before cartwheeling into the opposite side of the galley, her side impacting with the exit door. She knew pressurisation would prevent the so-called plug door from opening in flight that easily, even if a human being was thrown at it. It opened inwards with the door being slightly larger than its frame.

However, she also knew that it was going to hurt later on. She was used to pain, primarily the physical one. She immediately tried to catch her bearings. She wanted to check on Ethan. Just to make sure he was okay. Was there even time for that? No one was going to be okay unless this dive was quenched and the aircraft recovered.

              She looked all around, still down on her bottom on the floor, her back pressed up against the lower half of the door. She could hear the utensils in their cabinets overhead rattling along with the vibration. The blue liquid was emanating from the toilet in response to the changes in gravitational forces and leaking across the floor, through the recently-opened lavatory door, in her direction. She pulled herself up, feeling her back brushing up against the curvature of the fuselage. She looked left, gripped the corner to pull herself forward and peered around the corner of the galley’s bulkhead. Luther and Benji were in their seats all the way at the very back. Their eyes closed and teeth clenched with their heads arched back. They looked conscious but only barely and hardly any use to her. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling.

              It took a closer glance for her to see that the pair were actually holding hands, fingers interlocked and accepting their fate, so long as they were doing it together. Ilsa felt her heart skip a beat and then it calmed somewhat. Like it needed a wholesome break before kicking back into the analytical and calculating gear. Forcing more blood back into her brain.

              She saw something in the aisle merely a row ahead of where Luther and Benji were trapped, which suddenly caught her attention. The carpet of the aisle was almost jet black. Practically identical to the colour of Ethan Hunt’s jacket. It meant a delay in Ilsa realising that he was incapacitated and had fallen out of his seat as a result and lying in the aisle. No one able to help him back up at the very least into a more secure position.

              He’ll come round…right?

              “Ethan!” Ilsa wailed! She felt a watery drop in the corner of her eye and a quiver in her voice as she called his name.

              She was scared.

              She hated it.

              Ilsa felt utterly useless in that moment. The winds outside became ever more pronounced. Like they were diving through a hurricane. The worst on record.

Then a metallic grunt and a ripping of one aluminium surface from another. The sound of tearing coming from outside. Ilsa was pressed up against the galley on the starboard side. What little of her senses remained told her that it was coming from her side. Something was happening to the starboard wing. A gouging, a tearing, some sort of metallic structure screaming in agony.

Was the wing falling away? Had the dive been caused by it weakening to the point of finally snapping like a twig? I’m dead, I’m dead…

              A rumble beneath her feet. A different kind of metallic sound. A more man-made one. Like it was designed to grind in this way. A mechanical action beneath the floor. A clunk and then a continuous whirr which lasted for about ten seconds.

              Then Ilsa remembered that aircraft weren’t controlled from the rear. She spun around just in time to feel the lessening effects of the dive. Like a sudden hammering of the brakes on the highway. For some reason, the speed began to drop but she could feel the sensation of still being aimed at the ground. She was being given a chance from seemingly nowhere. Perhaps the pilots were beginning to recover from the upset. Whether that was the case or not, Ilsa was deeply distrusting of the whole situation. She could never sleep on planes or aboard any mode of transport. Sleeping while in motion would require her to not be in control of the vehicle and the thought made her insanely uncomfortable under any circumstances. Ilsa was trained to trust no one but herself. She would most certainly trust Ethan in such a situation like this, but it pained her to admit that he was of no use to her right now. He was unconscious, knocked out, or….

              She sucked in another breath at that thought and reminded herself that now was not the time! She wanted to see the situation in the cockpit for herself. She could move slowly. However, the fact that she could move at all was a miracle in itself. Something had been adjusted to make the jet slow down ever so slightly, but enough to give Ilsa a massive high of optimism. The glass was a fraction full but not completely empty. Whatever Lane had planned for this flight may have just been scuppered. Ilsa wanted to be the one to have the last laugh.

              She reached for the handle of the coveted door, noticing the keyhole beneath and closing her eyes with dread. Don’t be locked…don’t be locked.

              It was locked.

              Of course it was fucking locked!

              Thanks a bunch, Bin Laden!

              Then it hit her. The mercs! They probably served in Afghanistan at some point as part of the so-called war on terror. They could’ve assisted in the operation to capture or kill the man himself for all Ilsa knew. One thing she knew was that she’d observed sidearms on their persons as part of their task to escort Solomon Lane to Europe for the exchange, under Sloane’s orders.

Sloane…a deduction for later.

              The shuddering and rattling continued intensely in spite of the sudden slowdown and Ilsa knew that her window was closing as rapidly as it had opened. She threw herself down the metallic floor of the galley in the direction of the two pairs of mercs seated in the front row. She could scarcely believe that all four of them were, in fact, knocked out by the intense aerodynamic loads. All in spite of their training and experience.

              Maybe us Brits do it better…

              She shook off her sudden burst of smug patriotism for a country she wasn’t even born in and reached for the nearest available sidearm. She made a quick inspection while on her knees. A nine-millimetre Beretta. Pretty standard, but accurate and effective. She remembered watching its usage in various action movies of the 1980s as a little girl in the orphanage. She wouldn’t call them ‘innocent’ times, but they certainly felt much simpler than being an adult, regardless of how rough one’s childhood could be.

              She got to her feet, gripped the headrests of the forward seats and pushed herself forward. She kept her finger in front of the trigger guard as a small but vital precaution. She only needed one shot to break the lock. Ilsa most certainly did not need an accidental discharge rupturing the fuselage and ultimately ruining what she was working so hard to achieve. To save what she held most dearly. Or who, rather…

              She made her way back to the galley, stumbling from side to side and with her right palm and left hand pressed against the narrowed walls adjacent to the cockpit door. She closed her eyes and took a breath. Just need one shot, make it bloody count! She brought her finger to the trigger, pressed the tip of the barrel up against the space between the door and the frame where she knew the vital lock itself would be located. There was no point shooting the key hole itself since it wouldn’t dislodge the already-activated locking mechanism.

She could only hope the metal was strong enough so it would stop the bullet in time during its destruction. There was plenty of critical instrumentation and gauges directly ahead of the lock, not to mention three human beings.

              It’s too late to be scared…

              She squeezed the trigger and the Beretta spoke only once.

Chapter 4: Isaac Newton's Porn

Summary:

“So, let me get this straight!” Benji cut in. “We need to land extremely fast, insanely fast – without proper control of the plane?”
“Yes,” Ilsa said.
“And at night? With none of us having flight experience in daylight conditions, never mind night-time?” Benji added.
“You’re not helping, Benji,” she sighed.
“Sorry!”
“Look, guys,” Luther said. “It’s not impossible, it’s just difficult. Difficult should be a walk in the park for us!”

#

With her physical and mental energy draining by the second, Ilsa must enlist all the help and luck she could possibly get in order to save the lives of everyone aboard.

The locking mechanism was shattered. The cockpit door swung open, impacting against the wall on the inside and Ilsa’s heart sank. There were three seats, as part of the Boeing 727 flight deck. The front two seats on either side of the pedestal and throttles belonged to the Captain and First Officer. The Captain on the left-hand side and the First Officer on the right.

              However, the Captain was leaning to the left and back, completely motionless. His mouth hung open, knocked unconscious. Ilsa couldn’t see any blood spatter on the windshield or instrument panel. No sign of a physical injury from external sources. It must’ve been the sheer power of the dive and resulting shift of gravitational forces draining him of consciousness.

The First Officer wasn’t much better. Ilsa only had to look down to see him on the floor, sprawled and lying on his front.

              The closest seat to her was in the right rear of the flight deck, just ahead of the entrance. The seat belonging to the Flight Engineer. In the days before computers, the older generation of aircraft required a third member of the flight crew. The pilots were seated facing forward while the Flight Engineer would be facing the vast sea of instruments mounted on a panel along the wall on the right. He was seated perpendicular to his counterparts and would feed them information about the various systems like the fuel tanks, electrical and hydraulic systems.

              He was arched back with his head facing the ceiling and mouth wide open with some drool. Also knocked unconscious. The entire flight crew was incapacitated.

              Ilsa shrugged. Oh well, at least one of them was decent enough to fall out of his seat.

She awkwardly stepped over the First Officer and climbed her way into his seat.  She could feel the motion of the aircraft through the seat sending her signals through the nerves in her lower back. The rattling and vibration continued. She looked directly in front of her at the instrument panel. There was information on altitude, speed, direction and the attitude of the plane itself. Whether it was flying up, down or rolling to the left or right. They were all lit up as it was night-time, but it was only creating more problems for Ilsa than solutions. The various needles and numbers were all in a blur from the intense vibration.

              She knew the altitude indicator – also known as altimeter – was on the right-hand half of the panel. She couldn’t read the crucial numbers due to the obscurity of her own vision taking its time returning to normal. However, she could tell the needle itself was rapidly spinning anticlockwise. The plane was still falling.

              Am I stalling?

              It didn’t take Ilsa long to figure that it wasn’t the case. An aerodynamic stall being where the wings are moving through the air far too slowly to generate enough lift. The plane would fall like a rock. However, there were systems installed to alert pilots of a stall. Each pilot had a control column and Ilsa gripped the one directly in front of her with both hands. It was shaped like a car’s steering wheel with the top half sliced off. It wasn’t shaking or buzzing. The so-called stick-shaker alarm wasn’t activated.

              She looked down at the throttles between the pilots’ seats. They were reduced all the way back to idle. The lowest possible power setting without cutting the fuel to the engines altogether. A desperate attempt from the crew to slow the jet down and prevent an in-flight breakup. Ilsa knew that she needed to go up. Begin ascending again and getting as far away from the ground or ocean below as possible. In the tenseness of the past few minutes, she couldn’t determine how far they’d fallen. They could be on the verge of impact any second now, for all she knew.

              She leaned forward and looked up and it was an absolute godsend. In the midst of the expansive strip of star-studded black blanketing the cockpit windshield, was the white and cratered semi-circle. It was on the verge of slipping out of sight and up over the non-transparent ceiling.

              “Moon!” she blurted aloud. It was overhead.

Aim for it!

              She shoved the throttles up to full power with her left hand while pulling back on the column with her right. The engines screamed into life and Ilsa could already feel the change in pitch in her lower back as she sunk further into her commandeered seat. Pulling back would mean pulling up. The elevator tabs on the horizontal stabiliser sitting atop the rear of the plane being deflected upwards. She continued pulling back until the moon was in the centre of the windscreen. She nodded with increased confidence. Whatever was happening, she was now climbing the 727 to a higher and safer altitude. More space between them and the ground below. Climbing also slowed an aircraft down and she reduced throttle a touch to lower the load on the engines, which had already been through quite a trauma.

              There was an added side effect. The sudden change in gravitational forces, from suddenly going from a dive to a rapid ascent again, was causing a sharp pain and heaviness in her stomach and skull. It made the monthly cycle feel like child’s play in comparison. Ilsa then felt her normal body weight becoming quadrupled. The blood was changing direction but she still had to cope with dulled vision and a blurry instrument panel. She already had the plane in a steep climb, but she was now worried of an impending stall. The wings angled too high, the engines not getting enough air and the speed falling rapidly. It was easy to prevent in normal circumstances, just push forward again and get more air flowing over the wings and gain speed. But not when she could barely move a muscle.

              Gravity was being a true cunt in that moment.

              This is probably Isaac Newton’s version of hardcore porn, she reckoned.

              Ten seconds passed and the effects began to subside. The human body was like a computer, it required time to reboot when faced with a new and unforeseen scenario.

              Ilsa took the time to look around a bit more. Her vision was improving. Her blood flow levels stabilising and more equalised around her body. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow. The altimeter was showing a reading of climbing through 5,000 feet and the speed just above 200 knots. She was far from an expert but they were good enough numbers for her and the jet itself seemed to be handling everything reasonably well.

The aircraft was pitched twenty degrees ‘nose up’ and Ilsa pushed the column forward just a tad to lower it to ten degrees instead. Get more air flowing over those wings! She didn’t want to be pitched too high, which could also hamper lift as well as the amount of air the engines were taking in. They required a steady stream of oxygen to mix with fuel and ignite to generate thrust. Much like the human body when it came to a mixture of oxygen and blood.

Ilsa was just relieved she could feel her normal weight again and move the controls with the same ease as in the beginning.

              A tiny yellow square illuminated on the dashboard in front of her. The ‘Master Caution’ alert. Something was seriously wrong with at least one of the onboard systems. It was hardly surprising, given what the aircraft had just been through. The bottom line was that it was still flying.

              Ilsa caught it in the corner of her eye and glanced down at the lever a few inches to her left, still on the First Officer’s half of the cockpit. It controlled the landing gear. Raising the lever immediately after take-off retracted the gear into the belly to reduce drag and improve streamlined efficiency. Lowering it was only reserved for a few minutes before landing as part of standard procedure. It should never be done at high altitude.

              Yet it was. The lever was down and Ilsa could see the three indicator lights illuminated in green above it. The landing gear was safely down and locked.

              No wonder we slowed down so quickly, Ilsa deduced. The pilots did their best to slow down and save the airframe but were just too late to prevent their own bodies from giving up temporarily.

              Raising the gear again would improve speed and flyability, but Ilsa’s gut was telling her not to do it. If anything else goes wrong, at least she’d have the gear to crash on.

              It was down to her to land the plane, wherever the nearest airport may have been.

              Fate answered her latest question with a burst of static over the speakers. Someone was trying to contact the aircraft, naturally concerned about the sudden drop of altitude, according to their radar.

              “Janet 96, Janet 96, Shannon, come in please!” the Irish accent blared over the radio. It was a female voice and beyond comforting. It meant she was in range of someone who could see where she was on radar. Ilsa sighed with relief and felt like bursting into tears but there wasn’t time for that. Not nearly enough.

              Then she paused. Janet. She always figured that was a callsign reserved for the covert flights from Las Vegas International Airport to Area 51. Perhaps the CIA is downsizing? She shrugged. At least she had a callsign.

              She reached for the headset which was stowed above the windshield and fixed the muffs around her ears. She fumbled around for the mic and clicked the button.

              “Shannon, this is Janet 96, declaring an emergency! Our flight crew is incapacitated and we may be experiencing flight control problems,” Ilsa panted, taking a breath and trying to remember the correct terminology. She wanted to at least sound professional. “Janet 96, is requesting…vectors! Vectors to the nearest airport, please.”

              She could hear a sigh of relief from the controller. The poor woman was probably helplessly watching the target on her radar plummeting. She may have been reaching for the phone to report a crash and dreading the altitude reading zero, only for it to pause at 5,000 and begin increasing once again. She’d been spared a lifetime of nightmares, fuelled by the combined feelings of guilt and responsibility. Ilsa was now her hero and Faust herself felt very flattered.

              “Janet 96, welcome back!” the Irishwoman replied, before pausing with the realisation that the voice she was speaking to had no resemblance whatsoever to who she was talking to previously.

“I have you on the radar, do you have flight experience?”

              Ilsa rolled her eyes. She didn’t have time for this shit. The plane could fly but heaven only knew what condition everyone was in back there in the cabin. She thought of Ethan again. The sight of him sprawled across the aisle. She closed her eyes and took a breath. Now…is…not…the…time!

              “Affirmative, give me a vector and altitude for an approach, please,” she replied assertively.

              “Janet 96, you’re twenty nautical miles south of Shannon at the present moment. Turn right heading 300 and descend and maintain 5,000 feet. Vectoring you for an ILS approach to runway 5.”

              Alarm bells went off in Ilsa’s head at the mere mentioning of an ILS. ‘Instrument Landing System’. In poor weather, it’s a godsend for pilots. A beam is broadcast from the threshold of the runway and once tuned to the correct frequency, the aircraft can be guided in all the way to the centreline. However, for someone unfamiliar with the area or just unfamiliar in general, it meant consulting charts and entering the right frequencies and it sounded too daunting for Ilsa to even consider. She just wanted to land and once she could see the runway, that was all that mattered.

              “Shannon, Janet 96, would prefer a visual approach if at all possible. Can you confirm the weather conditions?” Ilsa said, while praying inside that she at least had a few decent miles of visibility.

              “Janet 96, visibility is greater than twenty miles, wind is calm. Runway 5 will be a straight-in approach. Cleared for the visual. Turn right heading 300 and descend to 5,000, please.”

              Ilsa read back the instruction and began slowly banking to the right, keeping her eye on the heading indicator until it reached 300. A north-westerly heading. She then nudged the column forward slightly to dip the nose down and begin bleeding off altitude. She was slipping through 6,000 feet. Another thousand to go.

              The sparkling of nearby urbanism could be seen on the blackened horizon ahead of her once she levelled out at 5,000 feet. It was a comforting sight. Whether it was Shannon itself or a neighbouring town, at least it confirmed she was over land if not nearby.

              “Ilsa!” a familiar voice gasped from the door behind her. Ilsa shrieked and spun her head around. It wasn’t the number one voice she was hoping for but a close second. Luther Stickell, a guy who could extract the most sensitive information from the most secure computer on the planet. There was a tiny streak of blood on his temple and he was dabbing it, his trademark straw hat missing.

              “Ethan?” she nervously asked.

              “Still out cold,” Luther said, shaking his head.

              Another head popped up over his shoulder. Benjamin Dunn, known to everyone around him as ‘Benji’.

              “Ilsa! What on earth are you doing flying the plane?” Benji gasped with widened eyes.

              Luther gave a rolling of the eyes, slowly craning his neck to look at Benji and then gestured with his arm at the three lifeless bodies in the cockpit. Benji then gave a silent oh and it was back to the matter at hand.

              “You guys might want to take your seats at a position that suits. I could do with someone sitting up here with me for the landing and someone to sit up behind me to give me information on systems. I have a feeling we’re losing some critical items after that dive,” Ilsa instructed, initially facing forward and then shooting a look back over her shoulder up at them, alarmed at the lack of reaction and confusion on their faces.

“Come on! There’s no time to waste!" she then swiftly gestured with a rolling motion of the arm. “We’ve already been cleared for an approach to Shannon. We’re only a few minutes away, we need to get ready!”

              They drew invisible straws and Benji awkwardly dragged the Flight Engineer from his seat, mouthing an awkward apology as he laid him on the ground. He took the seat and strapped himself in. He was overwhelmed initially at the vast sea of circular gauges with needles pointing in various directions. Some colour coded in terms of severity and others dully painted white with a dark grey background.

              Ilsa glanced over as Luther did the same with the Captain. The removal of the unconscious body began interfering with the control column on the left side and since both columns were connected, Ilsa had to grip hers even more tightly and exhaled as Luther took a seat beside her. He strapped himself in as Benji had done and took the controls briefly, holding the 727 straight and level while Ilsa belted herself securely. Control was then fully returned to Ilsa’s sore and already overworked hands.

              “Janet 96, turn right heading 020,” the Irish voice broke out over the radio.

              “Right turn heading 020, Janet 96,” Ilsa replied, before banking further, passing by the ‘N’ marking for north and edging into slightly eastbound. The controller was looping her around to line her up with the runway so she could see it from a decent distance out. There was nothing so far but Ilsa still took some comfort in the fact that she had some of her bearings.

              “Sorry to interrupt,” Benji said nervously. “But could you maybe give me some clues as to what systems I should be checking?”

              Ilsa knew something was wrong during the most recent turn. The column would still move but it was becoming heavier. There was no way the 727 was going to survive such a dive unscathed. It was still flying, but now with a limp.

              “Look for gauges with the letters H-Y-D written on them!” she called over her shoulder. “HYD meaning hydraulic.”

              Benji was silent for a few critical seconds and Ilsa’s patience was wearing thin. Luther sensed it and had a better vantage point by looking to his right over at Benji. His head was darting left and right to scan and then it paused. Benji began to stammer. He knew he was going to tell Ilsa something she didn’t want to hear, not realising she had a gut feeling already. Luther could read it all on their expressions alone. Like an audience member for a pantomime he had no intention of viewing, but was thrown into it at the last minute.

              “Uh…I see three of them?” Benji said nervously.

              “Yes, we should have three hydraulic systems,” Ilsa nodded. “What are they reading? Where are needles?”

              “Zero! They’re all at zero!” Benji reported with deflation in his voice.

              “Manual reversion,” Ilsa concluded.

              “What?” Luther asked, finally pitching in.

              “It’s like a car with no power steering,” Ilsa explained. “There’s no hydraulic fluid. While I can move the controls, they’re going to get astronomically heavy from now on, so I need both of us on the columns.”

              Luther immediately reached out and grabbed the column with all his might. He joined Ilsa in the turn and once they reached the instructed 020 heading, he assisted her in levelling out and keeping the wings symmetrical with the horizon.  

“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it than that?” he muttered from plenty of life experience.

              Ilsa closed her eyes and shook her head. “Thankfully the pilots lowered the gear to slow us down during the dive and I’ve left them down. We have that going for us. But…I can’t operate the slats or flaps. They slide out over the leading and trailing edges of the wings, respectively. The wing becomes bigger and thus generates more lift, which means I could slow down more for landing. But they need hydraulic fluid to extend. Especially against the force of the oncoming air hitting them!”

              “So, let me get this straight!” Benji cut in. “We need to land extremely fast, insanely fast – without proper control of the plane?”

              “Yes,” Ilsa said.

              “And at night? With none of us having flight experience in daylight conditions, never mind night-time?” Benji added.

              “You’re not helping, Benji,” she sighed.

              “Sorry!”

              “Look, guys,” Luther said. “It’s not impossible, it’s just difficult. Difficult should be a walk in the park for us!”

 

“Janet 96, turn right heading 050, report runway in sight,” the controller instructed. It was the beginning of the final approach. Finally, Ilsa thought. It was time to put this whole nightmarish experience to an end.

Ilsa no longer cared about Alanna or Lane. What mattered was getting back on the ground, back among the living. So long as they remained up in the air, Ilsa considered herself and those she cared about to be dead. The aircraft could shudder and come apart at any moment. She was convinced she heard creaking and tearing coming from one of the wings in the midst of the dive. She couldn’t be certain. Her memory was jarred for the time being. Too distracted by the present and uncertainty of the future to care much for the past.

“Right turn heading 050, will report runway in sight,” Ilsa replied, releasing the button on the mic and working in tandem with Luther to steer the Boeing 727 in the appropriate direction. She kept her eye on the instrument panel, paying close attention to the ADI – the Attitude Direction Indicator. On this particular aircraft it was in the shape of a circle.

The circle was divided horizontally. The upper semicircle was bright blue, representing the sky. The bottom was black, representing the earth’s surface. There was a line drawn across the centre of the circular screen to show the horizon. It remained fixed while the bicoloured circle moved in the background. It was rolling to indicate a turn. Ilsa knew that she had to trust this instrument and not look out the window. Spatial disorientation managed to kill a Kennedy and Ilsa was well aware it could affect even the most competent of pilots, regardless of skill or background.

So long as the horizon didn’t dip into the bottom half, Ilsa could breathe a bit. She knew that banking aircraft can cause a fractional loss of lift. She was still at 5,000 feet and had zero intention of going any lower. The airport was close to the banks of the Shannon River but she figured the controller would’ve cleared her to descend further if it was safe.  

The heading indicator slowly rotated until it reached 50 and Ilsa returned the aircraft to wings level. She knew that she was only doing half of the battle. She could hear Luther grunting beside her. She figured he had more physical strength than her but he also suffered from a general lack of fitness. His job when on a mission was more often than not sitting in a van and behind a computer screen. Ilsa didn’t want to take away his contribution to the outcome of a task but she also felt it just as wrong to expect too much of him from a hands-on standpoint. She once again rubbed sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and exhaled.

“Is that it up there?” Luther suddenly said and pointed over the dashboard. Ilsa had to squint slightly, but the unmistakable shape made itself out. It was an isosceles triangle of bright white lights. Only a triangle, however, due to their perspective from being a distance and height away from it.

But it was undoubtedly the runway of Shannon Airport.

“There we are!” Ilsa nodded. “Gentlemen, make sure you’re strapped in. This is going to be a rough one!”

“Ethan?” Benji suddenly asked, spinning his head to ask Luther like a terrified child.

There was a tense and awkward silence hanging in the air like a bad smell, as Ilsa slowly craned her neck and looked at both of them.

“You…strapped him into his seat, didn’t you?” she asked sternly.

They tilted their heads, made a tiny gesture with their hands while attempting to make up the best possible excuse while knowing fully well it was pointless.

“Oh my…god…” she whispered, shaking her head and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Just…be gentle!” Benji nodded, before making the bold move of patting Ilsa on the shoulder. He then caught Luther in the corner of his eye. The veteran was shaking his head with a stern look on his face. Don’t go there, man, just sit your ass back down.

“Benji?” Ilsa asked quietly.

“Yes?” he said attentively, like nothing was wrong.

“There isn’t enough time. The runway is too close. Strap yourself in and keep to yourself, or I swear to god I will bury this jet into the runway, if it means killing you as well as the rest of us, sound good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Benji nodded awkwardly and did as she instructed.

Ilsa took a moment to look over at Luther. He gave her a tilt of the head. Every workplace has got one of them, what can you do? Ilsa had to take some amusement in his calmness, but she was still overwhelmingly frustrated and disgusted at their lack of care for Ethan’s safety. Perhaps to an extent, she had to understand it since while they all have their part to play in a mission, it’s hardly a secret who has to carry the brunt of the weight of responsibility. The one taking the blows and shots, the one running himself to the brink of a cardiac. Ethan could be described as beyond capable.

There wasn’t time.

“Shannon, Janet 96 has the runway in sight. Do you have the equipment ready for us?” she called over the radio.

              “Janet 96, affirmative, equipment is waiting at the threshold and will follow you during your slowdown.”

              “Please be advised that we will have minimal braking power, due to a hydraulics failure. We will stop before the end of the runway if we can but we will need all the foam you’ve got doused on our brakes to prevent immolation,” Ilsa added.

              “Janet 96, acknowledged. We’ll pass that along. Thank you. Confirm runway in sight?”

              Ilsa and Luther looked at each other, nodded and then Ilsa clicked the mic once again. “Janet 96, affirmative. Request to remain on this frequency during approach.”

              “Affirmative. You are cleared to land on runway 5. Best of luck.”

              Ilsa released the mic’s button, before admitting to herself that she was going to need all the bloody luck she could get. She blew out a sigh. Normally she’d start slowing down below 200 knots and attempt a nice and steady landing speed of roughly 120. However, she no longer had access to the flaps and slats. Slowing down was something she couldn’t do. She had to land fast or risk stalling and then dropping like a rock into the murky abyss below.

              “Coming off on the power,” she said, slowly decreasing the engines, killing some speed and lift, while beginning the descent. It was going to be a controlled fall to earth.  “Luther, keep an eye on my sink rate, you’ll see it on the vertical speed indicator in front of you.”

              “Got it. When do you want me to call you out?”

              “When it goes below a thousand per minute. Anything faster than that and we’ll fall short or have to abandon the landing. And I’d rather attempt this only once if we can help it. We don’t have enough control to execute a missed approach safely. We’re either going to end up on the runway, in the grass or drastically change the topography of the town of Shannon itself.”  

              “…gotcha,” Luther said after a brief and ominous pause. He admired Ilsa for taking on the immense challenge and speaking with such authority. Normally it was Ethan as team leader. The two of them were made for each other.

              So why can’t they see it themselves, damn it, man!

              Come on, Luther. Keep it together! Not now!

              Ilsa waited the few critical seconds it took to bleed off as much speed as possible while still maintaining a steady fall. She kept the runway in her sights. It was visual and she could see the so-called ‘Eddies’ on the left-hand side of the threshold. They consisted of a row of four lights in a line perpendicular to the runway. They were bright white for now and once they started turning red, she was in trouble. One red light and she was slightly below. All four were red and it was a practically a shout at her to abandon the landing.

              The optical illusion was becoming less of a triangle as the other end of the runway began to make itself clear. The distance was closing. Ilsa could still make out an acceptable descent angle.

              Then Luther had to ruin it.

              “You’re passing a thousand, push it up a bit!”

              “Damn it!” Ilsa hissed, having to add a bit of power to settle the engines and then the speed itself. She looked at her airspeed indicator. “We’re still at 210 knots.”

              “Is that…bad?” Benji asked.

              “Far from ideal!” Luther sharply answered. “But Ilsa?”

              She looked over at him, seeing him more and more as a man to turn to for more fatherly advice, ever since the heart-to-heart in London.

              “It’s gonna have to do?” he shrugged.

              She nodded. “Let’s do it.”

              “Five hundred!”

              The automated voice blared over the speakers. It was fed information by a sensor mounted to the belly of the jet and measuring the distance to the ground as it came up. It was what Ilsa was waiting for. It meant she no longer had to focus on her altimeter and could keep an eye on the runway.

              “Four hundred!”

              Luther decided to keep quiet from then on. He could see the focus and determination on Ilsa’s face. The sweat had ruined her hair, turning the strands all wiry. It was a testament to how hard she was working to save everyone.

              Help me down, Ethan! Please!

              He wasn’t dead but for those few minutes, it felt like he was gone and Ilsa was on the verge of falling to shit. How did she know that he hadn’t passed onto the next world? The landing itself could kill him.

              “Three hundred!”

              “Coming off on the power altogether!” she then called, reducing the throttles all the way to idle. She kept the sink going towards the threshold. She had to time it properly. Touch down as slow as possible but also as smoothly as possible. Too fast and she’ll overshoot the runway. Too slow and they’ll be little more than pancakes in the surrounding earth.

              “Two hundred!”

              The engines groaned to their lowest power setting without quitting altogether. The entire fuselage and extended landing gear became drag. The aerodynamic force which was lift’s worst enemy. It was pulling it back against the air, slowing it down. It was what Ilsa wanted. But it was a deadly balancing act.

              One hundred!

              They were close enough that Ilsa could make out the rotating blue sirens aboard the fire engines. They were sitting completely still at the beginning of the threshold. Enough room for her to pass over, thankfully. She wondered how many calls they would get per year. Shannon had long lost its stopover status, ever since aircraft were designed to fly longer journeys without the need to refuel. She’d admittedly never been to Ireland. It was one hell of a way to arrive in a new country and for once, neither Lane nor MI6 were responsible.

              The same couldn’t be said for the CIA. Ilsa had her suspicions but decided to save those for later.

              “Fifty!”

              Ilsa pulled back on the column to bring the nose up. The announcement for fifty feet was usually the cue for all pilots to begin resting the sink rate. Pull back and begin the flare. The nose up and plane practically gliding across the surface of the earth with just a gentle nudge to allow the tyres to screech upon the asphalt. It was more a case of “easier done than said” some pilots would say. Like a motorist describing taking a roundabout.

              “Forty!”

              She needed to judge the sink rate by the gap between callouts.

              The longer, the better…

              Unless her perception of time was somewhat distorted. How long were they in the dive for? How long had they been in the air since take-off? How long had it been since she first laid eyes upon Ethan Hunt? The muscular physique, bearer of battle scars, which she first witnessed chained to a pipe beneath the streets of London. The Bone Doctor..

              “Thirty!”

              She added more rearward pressure.

              “How am I doing?” she suddenly blurted out.

              “You’re good! Keep it up!” Luther barked back.

              “Twenty!”

              They roared over the threshold and the emergency vehicles. No rotating sirens to distract them. Just the runway and the three parallel lines of lights to fully guide them down.

              “Twenty feet!” Benji called out, just wanting to be involved.

              “Thank you, Benji!” Ilsa and Luther both called back in unison.

              Ilsa ran a quick question through her head to time it perfectly for the final callout. A question she would imagine being asked by her closest ‘gal pal’, as the Americans would say. A coworker or someone she’d grow close to and go with to the pub on a Friday evening after the final shift of the week.  

              On a scale between one and ten, how would you rank Ethan Hunt as someone you’d want for the rest of your life and to never let leave your bed?

              The announcement came just in time.

              “Ten!”

              Ilsa was already reaching for the forward-facing levers attached to the throttles. They were for the thrust reversers. Metallic buckets deploying behind the engines to redirect thrust forward to effectively slow the aircraft down. There was limited braking action as it was. She pulled the levers and yanked them back just in time for the almighty screech of pain from the six tyres.

              They shook on touchdown.

              “We’re down!” Luther called.

              “Full reverse!” Ilsa added as the roar and rumble of the reversers being activated could be heard throughout the cabin and remaining interior. The sensation of insane motion had returned for the first time since take-off. It would feel tense enough for an infrequent traveller during a normal landing. This was something else, to put it mildly!

              The aircraft shook intensely to the point of the instruments becoming blurred again, the white lights of the runway on either side zipping past in a continuous line. Like a bullet train passing by streetlights. Ilsa focused on the centreline, using her feet on the pedals for controlling sideways motion. They also acted as the brakes and it meant pressing one’s feet against the upper half.

              “On the brakes with me! Come on!” Ilsa panted and she could feel Luther grunting with exasperation at the same time.

              There was a growl from beneath them. The brakes were already labouring, being asked to do even more with even less. Like a typical workplace. The pads were probably on fire already.

              “The trucks better be following us!” Luther grunted through clenched teeth.

              Then it happened.

              They all lurched forward and then back, their necks being forced to arch and their gaze was up at the ceiling. All three of them looked forward and then all around them, their jaws weak from the sudden release of tension and fear. The reversers were still bellowing and they could tell from a runway light on either side beginning to gently recede that they were crawling backwards.

              Ilsa slammed the reverser levers forward again to return the buckets to the neutral position. One final tap of the brake and they were stopped in the middle of the runway.

              Ilsa heard Benji gasp with relief behind her and give a tiny chuckle of disbelief. He clapped once and then patted Luther on the shoulder. She watched in the corner of her eye and cringed as the two men gave each other a fist-bump.

              “Janet 96, nice landing! The fire crews are behind you, asking that you shut down the engines!”

              Ilsa could see the three switches at the base of the throttles for the fuel flow. She sighed and slammed them all down to cut off the fuel completely. The engines began whining at a high pitch, the turbines quickly slowing down and dying completely. They were being given a well-deserved rest. Possibly a permanent one, depending whether the damage was a write-off or not.

              “Janet 96, shutting down,” Ilsa said, letting the mic fall for the last time.

“I’ll leave the rest to you gentlemen,” she then added, climbing out of the seat and brushing past a bewildered Luther and Benji. She let the cockpit door slam shut behind her.

She then stepped over the unconscious bodies of the mercs. One of them was probably going to be wondering where his gun had gone. Ilsa was going to hold onto it for the time being. She didn’t know who to trust or what to believe. The only thing she knew for sure is that she needed to be with Ethan. To tend to him. To see for herself that he was alive.

Trust, but verify.

He was still in the aisle. More or less in the same position in which she’d previously seen him. On his front and slightly rolled over.

“Ethan,” she whispered, kneeling down.

She could hear the sirens from outside, the repetitive blue glow and then darkness cycling back and forth from the windows. They would be here soon. They’d be inside and taking Ethan onto a stretcher and to safety.

“Welcome to Ireland, darling,” she added with a nervous chuckle.

Darling. She actually called him that. Could he hear her? She didn’t care right then and there. She was done hiding, done pretending. She cared about Ethan and needed him to be okay. She needed him, full stop. She then wondered if she should say ‘period’? And ‘highway’ instead of ‘motorway’. She wanted to move to the US for a fresh start. English-speaking, plenty of areas to explore and most importantly; the only man on the planet she wanted to be with. The only one to whom she wanted to give her body.

Why was he so curt to her after the meet with Alanna? Was he assuring her that their relationship was just business, or was he frankly shutting Ilsa down. Making it clear that they were just business partners and nothing more. A job to be done and that was it. Move on with each other’s lives?

She decided to be optimistic for a change and believed the former for the time being. Until Ethan was conscious again, he couldn’t correct her even if he needed to and she chose to live in denial for now.

She wanted to say so much more, but Ilsa just took an unresponsive Ethan into her arms and let it all out. She’d allowed the tension to dictate her focus for what felt like forever. It wasn’t just the dive and emergency landing. It was all of the uncertainty, fear and danger and not to mention insatiable feelings all coming together. The rather large straw which broke the camel’s back.

Ilsa felt like a rupturing dam while holding Ethan, burying her sniffling nose into the nape of his neck and with her tears, she begged him not to leave her. She wasn’t asking him to come away with her this time.

Just stay with me…

Chapter 5: Black Boxes

Summary:

They reached the rear doors of the ambulance and she took a step back as they were yanked open and the two paramedics prepared to lift Ethan and slide him inside. She leaned forward;
“I’ll see you in the hospital, darling. Here’s something to keep you warm until then!” she whispered into his ear, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
She wanted nothing more than to sit in the ambulance with him and then at his bedside at all times for the duration of his unexpected visit. However, the relief of the landing and the majority of those she cared for escaping unscathed only kicked Ilsa’s investigative mind back into gear. She knew what had happened. But it was the why aspect that was already eating her alive, like a nuclear-powered mosquito.

#

After a harrowing ordeal, Ilsa Faust takes the time to reset and, with Benji and Luther in tow, sets out to find the reason behind their near-death experience.

No one had died, by some miracle. Anyone affected was knocked unconscious by either the extreme gravitational loads imposed by the spiral dive, or just a victim of pure bad luck without the barrier of a seatbelt. Some could argue that it was dumb to not have one’s seatbelt fastened, but others could counterargue that it was a sudden and unexpected departure from the relaxed cruise phase of the flight. Barring an encounter with turbulence, passengers were free to go with or without seatbelts, however they pleased. So long as no one attempted to interfere with the flight deck and/or the pilots, no one would complain.

The local hospital staff in the nearby towns of Shannon and Ennis were going to be working some serious overtime, regardless.

              For the second time that week, Ilsa kept her hand around Ethan’s wrist as the wheels of the stretcher clickety-clacked along the partially-broken asphalt of the apron. There was a gentle breeze forming, coming in from the nearby Atlantic. Her hair was being blown across her face and momentarily obscuring her view of Ethan at times. A miniscule disruption but after such an ordeal, the pettiest of obstacles were more than irritating for her.

              They reached the rear doors of the ambulance and she took a step back as they were yanked open and the two paramedics prepared to lift Ethan and slide him inside. She leaned forward;

              “I’ll see you in the hospital, darling. Here’s something to keep you warm until then!” she whispered into his ear, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

              She wanted nothing more than to sit in the ambulance with him and then at his bedside at all times for the duration of his unexpected visit. However, the relief of the landing and the majority of those she cared for escaping unscathed only kicked Ilsa’s investigative mind back into gear. She knew what had happened. But it was the why aspect that was already eating her alive, like a nuclear-powered mosquito.

              The doors were slammed shut with Ethan inside. The paramedic pair comprised of a male and female, both roughly in their thirties. The woman gave her a casual wave while the guy was slightly more audacious and winked at Ilsa while making his way to the driver’s seat. Ilsa briefly debated the message behind it. It was either an insensitive attempt at flirting, or a wordless assurance that everything would be okay and Ethan was under the greatest care Ireland had to offer. Ilsa was no stranger to flirtatious advances. She couldn’t understand it sometimes what guys saw in her when she looked in the mirror. Her morning-self, right after getting out of bed, was not a pleasant sight as far as Ilsa was concerned.

She could only hope Ethan would see it differently.

Ilsa decided she had more pressing matters on her mind, rather than debating whether or not a paramedic she was unlikely to ever see again was into her. She stood for a few more seconds as the taillights of the ambulance illuminated her figure with a reddened aura and she watched as it shot off towards the airport building.

              She turned around, her hands shoved into her black overcoat’s pockets. She hooked her hair behind her ears and squinted. The stricken Boeing 727 was now sitting in front of her, with an odd look of pride. It almost felt like it was thanking her for saving it and giving it the chance to continue its already extended life for a few more years. The emergency services had gathered by the rear and left-hand side of the aircraft. It was where the main exit door was located, so it made sense. The yellow emergency slide was still inflated and brushing a few inches back and forth across the asphalt.

              There was a blanket of firefighting foam surrounding the three sets of landing gear. The brakes in particular had been relentlessly doused, as per Ilsa’s request. There was no fire, just a distinct smell of burnt metal hanging around in the air and no one wanted to take any chances.

It was better than burnt flesh, Ilsa figured.

              The left wing was structurally immaculate. No signs of damage. Ilsa decided to take a tiny stroll around the nose gear, already reaching into her pocket and she was glad her instincts were still on point. She aimed her phone’s camera, making sure the lens was clean. She then proceeded to take as many snaps as she could of the starboard wing in the few seconds it would take for either Luther or Benji to realise she was nowhere to be seen and that Ethan was left alone in the departed ambulance.

              The right wing was mangled. A third of the way in from the wingtip, there was a section seemingly ripped out along the leading edge. Like a shark had swam up and taken a massive chunk out of it. Ilsa could see the green-coloured internal structures of the wing, likely parts of the fuel tank and hydraulic lines.

Hydraulics were known for being the ‘lifeblood’ of the plane and like a human’s veins, they run everywhere around the airframe. It was the same for all aircraft equipped with flight controls too heavy to be operated by human muscle alone. Previous incidents involving hydraulic loss have led to changes, such as valves to trap any remaining fluid to make controls at least somewhat moveable after a rupture. However, while older planes can still be reliable, they can also slip through the cracks of regulation. Especially when purchased or chartered by a clandestine organisation.

A vertical sparkle caught her attention and Ilsa lowered her phone. Something was leaking from underneath the wing. She decided that stepping closer and reaching out to touch it, even with gloves on, was a one-way ticket to having no hands left.

How else will I give Ethan much-deserved pleasure in his hospital bed…?

She figured it was what little fluid or fuel left in the right wing remained, leaking out and making a puddle on the tarmac. She realised that the entire west coast of Ireland was now effectively crippled for incoming and outgoing traffic. It was the longest runway in Ireland, granted, but it was still the only runway at Shannon. She thought of the massive anger and frustration from passengers wanting to leave for the US or European destinations after saving up and waiting for so long.

Her first trip into Ireland was certainly quite an entrance.

She took one final look for a few additional clues and was satisfied she’d found what she was looking for. The first critical piece of evidence. She had reasons for pre-conceived notions, but now it was time to put her emotional side up against its pragmaticand more experienced counterpart.

She backtracked around the nose gear and spun her head around. This time she was the one looking for Luther and Benji and she called their names, once each. She then heard herself being shushed by the latter. Some more seconds of spinning her head were had before she noticed the distinctive outline of Benji’s head popping up from the other side of the unperturbed wing.

“Benji? What on earth are you doing over there?” she called. She ducked beneath the wing, rather than suffer a few more seconds by going around the wingtip.

Benji’s hands were on Luther’s ass.

She closed her eyes initially, wondering what the fuck she was walking in on, before she squinted against the cold breeze and realised that Luther was halfway up a service door. His brown leather jacket struggling to squeeze through the frame and trying his best not to damage or tear it in the process. Ilsa was willing to wager he had the jacket longer than they’d known each other.

“Do you have them?” Benji called up to him once Ilsa had joined them, with her arms inquisitively folded.

“First one coming your way!” Luther’s voice echoed from inside and a tiny card dropped its way down and into Benji’s hand. He nodded and slipped it into his breast-pocket with a zipper.

Luther then grunted and made his way back down, Benji’s teeth clenching while holding him for as long as he could before Luther’s weight just became too much for him. Luther was close enough to the ground for a safe landing by then. Stickell had the second card and gave a raise of the eyebrows and a bulging of his eyeballs from relief while looking at Ilsa.

“D…Don’t tell me those are the…?” she stammered? Her eyebrows raised with astonishment.

“I’m just glad they’re digital these days,” Luther sighed. “Otherwise I’d be carrying two damn stereos under my arms!”

The infamous ‘Black Boxes’. One designed to record all cockpit sounds and conversations within the last half hour of a flight. This was the standard back when they were using a spool of magnetic tape. The fact it was stored on a memory card was giving Ilsa confidence that there’d be more time recorded. The second kept a record of the aircraft’s performance. Engine readings, airspeed, altitude and heading as well as various other parameters.

Ilsa was far more invested in the Cockpit Voice Recorder than the Flight Data Recorder. The data recorder would tell her what happened, which she didn’t need to know. She lived through it and barely survived. Out of the blue, the jet began vibrating and shaking intensely, before rolling over and spiralling out of control for what felt like an eternity.

The voice recorder was hopefully going to tell her why it all happened. ‘Hopefully’ being the operative word.

“Okay, what do we do now?” Benji shrugged, shivering from the cold.

“The IMF once again has no Secretary,” Luther muttered in a matter-of-factly voice. “Sloane is probably still halfway over the Atlantic, if not being rerouted by now. Several of her men are now unconscious and in Irish hospitals. Not to mention that we are now in Ireland of all places. This of course being a nation that is supposed to be neutral in world affairs. Ethan’s incapacitated and in medical care. The best thing we can do is rent a car and lay low for a few days. There’s a town not far from here called Ennis, might be our best bet. We should move now, before the dozens - if not hundreds - of pissed off tourists decide to leave the airport after learning of their cancellations and fill up all the rental cars and hotel rooms in the area.”

Benji gave a tiny tilt of his head. “Very good…what he said!”

“I get my own room, the two of you can share if you want!” Ilsa huffed.

 

She felt dirty, sticky and just gross in general. Ilsa yanked the clothes from her body as she hobbled in the direction of the shower. The room was just for her, paid at the expense of a shadow account controlled by Luther. Or at least an account he had covert access to. It hardly mattered to her right then and there. Ilsa needed to freshen up, no matter who was paying for it. The hotel room had its own shampoo and soap dispensers as well as freshly folded towels on the racking.

              The showerhead was detachable, thank fuck. Ilsa could get access to the various parts of her body without having to undertake awkward angles. Such a dangerous career choice led to her appreciating the more petty and trivial things in life. She let the water run through her hair, trickling down her shoulders and across her chest. She imagined what it’d be like to have Ethan in there with her. Him taking control, running the shampoo through her hair while playfully brushing suds away to prevent any from getting into her eyes.

              Ilsa giggled at the mere thought. There was so much for her to look forward to.

              Hold up! She’d only just called him ‘darling’ while he was in no condition to respond. That was hardly an established relationship. He could’ve easily have wanted to tell her to fuck off, he’s a professional. A professional….lovemaker?  

              Ilsa suddenly regretted not asking Julia outright back in Kashmir. What was Ethan like? He always gave Ilsa the impression of being the type to care more for his woman’s pleasure than his own. To make sure she got off several times in a row before he even got his own conclusion. The mere thought of Ethan doing it to her was making Ilsa feel hot inside all of a sudden. Her hand was already reaching between her thighs before she knew it and moving two fingertips in a circular motion around the sensitive zone.

              She bit her lower lip as she allowed many thoughts regarding Ethan – including his tongue - to flow out of her memory and into her imagination bank. She hissed loudly at the climax she was giving herself and had to hold onto the frame of the glass pane adjacent to the tiled wall.

              She then turned her attention back to soaping and lathering herself, the sudden release of physical tension providing her with a clearer mind. Once she felt fresher and the shower was turned off, she wrapped herself in a hotel-issue robe and retreated to her bed, sitting on the ledge and opening up her phone again. There was one unread message and she opened it up.

              Benji here, Luther and I are ready to talk shop if you want? Or we can wait until morning? Your choice! Dunn :)

              Was the smiley face really necessary? Sure, Ilsa would consider them to be firm acquaintances at this stage but it still felt a bit too much. Maybe she was just oversensitive? If Ethan had sent her such an emoticon, she may have had to retreat back to the shower once again, or even set herself up in the bed for a more extended session.

              However, her need to get the job done was overtaking any other desire within her. The job being finding out what caused the near disaster over Ireland. Ilsa shot back a text to Benji them know she’ll be over to them in a few minutes.

              She proceeded to get redressed immediately. She wasn’t particularly thrilled about getting back into clothes in which she’d sweated half of her body weight earlier that night, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. It was late at night and all of the clothes shops would be closed. And besides, only one member of the IMF was going to be allowed to see Ilsa Faust naked! Ever!

              Only if he wants to, though…

              The last thing Ilsa ever wanted to do was to make Ethan uncomfortable. She wanted to be his living and breathing sanctuary. His escape from the chaos of the world. Julia was meant to be as such and it never worked out. Ilsa liked her, but if it came to a fistfight to the death, she wouldn’t have considered herself to be arrogant to figure which one of the two women in Ethan Hunt’s life would come out on top.

              She then pictured herself delivering one solid punch to Alanna Mitsopolis’ smug and arrogant face. Just to stun her with some basic brutality, knock some manners and common decency into her pampered personality.

              Ilsa checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was still wiry but from a thorough wash this time and she nodded, grabbing her hotel room’s keycard and letting the door click shut behind her. Luther and Benji were next door and within thirty seconds, she was inside and sitting in one of two armchairs surrounding a coffee table. Luther was in the second armchair with a laptop set up. Benji was on the edge of one of the two single beds with his own device on top of his lap.

              “So, you managed to get separate beds,” Ilsa remarked, scrolling through her phone’s gallery.

              “He insisted,” Luther muttered, glaring over at a confused Benji before returning to the talking of shop.

 

“Well, as I figured, the data recorder isn’t telling us much that we don’t already know. Then again, there aren’t many parameters in the first place. All we know of is the speed and altitude and whether it was banking or pitching. A modern memory card but the system feeding it remains the same,” Luther sighed with disappointment. “Sudden bank to the right, then a complete rollover before recovery.”

              Ilsa waited as Luther pulled the first memory card out of his laptop and inserted the second one. The one Black Box which might actually give them some more information. Whatever caused the roll and dive might have been known by the crew and discussed both before and during the calamity. Whether they knew about it or not, they failed to prevent it from very nearly sending them to the bottom of the ocean or Irish countryside. It was only when Ilsa, a civilian, stepped in that the day had been saved.

              His speakers were turned up to maximum, likely forgotten about from excessive use of headphones on a separate volume connection. The sound of rattling and grunts from the flight crew blared out over the speakers. The aircraft shaking and vibrating. Repetitive calls from the same controller who talked Ilsa down. “Janet 96, Shannon, do you read?....Janet 96, Shannon, do you read? Come in, please!”

              Alarm bells blaring. Overspeed, Master Caution, Autopilot Disconnect.

The sound of pandemonium.

              It was the last thing they were expecting to hear. They were anticipating some mundane conversation about the operation of the flight or some spiel regarding the pilots’ own lives back home. The tension building with the advantage of hindsight on the listener’s side. Knowing that something was going to go wrong and spending the next few minutes attempting to dig it out from the clues. An alarm going off, a sound, a voice noticing something and bringing it to everyone’s attention.

              This was recording the middle of the chaos, after the cause had revealed itself.

              “That can’t be right!” Benji called from the other side of the room.

              “Is it at the very beginning?” Ilsa asked, nodding at the laptop.

              Luther captured the dot representing the video’s position within its running time and moved it all the way back to the left, hitting play. It replayed the exact same commotion and grunts from the pilots from before. The middle of the struggle and not the chain of events leading up to it.

              Luther then clicked twenty minutes ahead, near the end of the recording, and could hear the unmistakable ‘fifty, forty, thirty, twenty…’ callouts and Benji pitching in with ‘twenty feet’ and the sarcastic gratitude. Luther paused it and turned his laptop around to show Ilsa that it was just two minutes before it ultimately lost power. When she’d brought the plane to a stop and shut down the engines and any electrical components supplied by their generators.

              Twenty-two minutes captured instead of the bare minimum of thirty.

              “Even if it was an old recording system with a modern archive, it still should’ve recorded at least eight minutes before the dive began. Thirty minutes minus twenty-two. My instincts are telling me that this wasn’t a malfunction. Otherwise it wouldn’t have recorded the remainder of the dive and then landing,” he explained to Ilsa.

              All three of them exchanged ominous looks.

              Benji chose to be the one to say what everyone was thinking.

              “The pilots erased the recording.”

Chapter 6: The Patient

Summary:

She had no dreams whatsoever that night and Ilsa was almost disappointed as she awoke, propping herself up on her elbows and feeling blinded. She squinted to the realisation that she never drew her curtains. She would’ve liked at least some sort of image of him happy and healthy, maybe even his body being in her arms in a far more pleasant way. Waking up together, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears and speculating about what to make for breakfast or what they wanted to do for the day, excluding each other.
Ilsa felt an intermittent buzzing coming from nearby and she knew already that she had none of her toys on her person. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and reached over for her phone, which was left on vibrate. It was Luther. She answered straight away, unsure of how many attempts had been made before.
“Hey, sorry if I woke you but Benji and I are about to go see Ethan. He’s under observation at the Ennis Hospital. Only about ten minutes’ driving? You down?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?” Ilsa snorted.
“Wouldn’t know, didn’t last that long in Catholic school.”

She allowed the television in her hotel room to continue playing as she laid back in the bed completely naked and under the covers. Ilsa often listened to ASMR videos on YouTube on her headphones, wherever she may end up sleeping for the night. She required some sort of escape that didn’t involve alcohol. At least some of the time. She may be called for a mission at any moment. Not to mention dealing with the demons brought about by previous assignments. She needed the white noise in order to think as well as escape.

              The Black Boxes were meant to provide them with the answers. To allow them to hear something that ultimately cracked the case. But it was the exact opposite. They only deepened the mystery. Ilsa felt robbed of answers, cheated. If they had the previous eight minutes to complete the thirty-minute loop, then they’d have a better idea of what triggered the intense and catastrophic rollover. It wasn’t a matter of what they heard, but what they didn’t hear.

              “Ilsa,” she remembered Luther Stickell saying, while still in the room with him and Benji discussing the case. “Just because you’re missing the puzzle piece, doesn’t mean you can’t still make out its shape from all the others around it?”

              She gave him a smirk. No wonder he and Ethan got along and worked together so well. They always knew what to do or say to make those around them feel more confident. To pluck some sort of logic in a sea of chaos and confusion.  

              They did have their missing piece, and the shape it left behind was beyond suspicious.

              When a motorist gets into a road accident and they have dashcam installed, would they erase the footage if they were innocent? Ilsa knew that plenty of aviation disasters went unsolved, pilots incorrectly blamed for plane crashes in the days before voice recorders were invented. It was a lot easier to blame a single pilot for falsified incompetence, than to blame a defective aircraft design, which would cost a lot more time and money to fix and re-enter into service.

              “The pilots erased the tape,” Benji repeated in her head.

              There were three of them in that cockpit. All three were spending the night in an Irish hospital. It was only a matter of time before they’d be visited by whatever the local organisation is called when it comes to investigating plane crashes. In the United States – that falls to the National Transportation Safety Board, the NTSB. The case may have been on Irish soil but the crew were American, as were most of the passengers. Not to mention the Boeing 727 itself being an American-made plane. There was an international obligation for D.C. to get involved and provide assistance wherever possible.

              If Sloane even allows it…

              All Ilsa had to do was contemplate it for a second, in order for her attention to rapidly shift right back to the enigmatic Director. Something about the look on her face when the taillights of the car reflected off her eyes was still getting to Ilsa. She was all too familiar with attempts of intimidation, some more successful than others. She was beyond competent, but still a woman in a ‘business’ dominated by men. It required tough skin, which led to Ilsa doing her upmost to never let anyone get under hes, sometimes failing. Only one person, however, has ever gotten into her heart.

              And now he, too, was in a hospital bed. All alone with only the beeps of a nearby monitor to keep him company. He must’ve regained consciousness by now. Perhaps he’s already reached out to Luther and Benji? It had been an hour since Ilsa retreated to her room for the night and they agreed to reconvene at seven sharp in the morning to visit Ethan together at the hospital in Ennis.

              Ilsa couldn’t have been more tempted to ditch the hotel and the pair in the other room, make her way to the hospital and to Ethan’s bed and just climb in with him. Her heart fluttered at the mere thought of just being able to cuddle him and make his worries go away at least for a little while. He liked to make everyone think he was a machine who could compute the best solution to every provided problem, but Ilsa could see right through the act. He was good, there was no denying it, but Ilsa saw the imperfections too. He had his vulnerability. His loneliness, Julia Meade being case in point. His previous attempt at a ‘normal’ life, only for it to end in disappointment. There were no deaths, but at least deaths were final.

              Sadness and loneliness were for life.

              Ilsa then hissed through clenched teeth at herself. Some self-loathing for how easy it was for her to slip into thinking of Ethan constantly when she should be looking at all the data regarding the case. Even when he’s in another building in another town, he’s still so bloody distracting. Damn him!

              Sloane was headed to Langley along with what was left of the IMF after the mission was accomplished in Kashmir. On separate aircraft, however. Why not just hop on the 727 with them? Surely even the CIA is on a yearly budget? Erika took her own private aircraft. On one hand, Ilsa could understand as the Director would have access to sensitive information. A satellite phone call could go off at any minute. A call from POTUS. Anyone or anything.

              Ilsa felt her suspicion growing regardless. The look during the exchange. Why give her a threatening look when all was accomplished? Lane had finally been handed off to those who wanted him most. A blond-haired arms dealer satisfied with the glory of being the broker of said exchange. Ilsa now free.

              Am I? Am I really?

              She said it herself to Ethan when he was struggling to comprehend how she could still be working for MI6 after Lane’s first capture.

              “We are never free.”

              Perhaps that’s what Erika meant with her look.

              “You’re not free…you’re just mine now.”

              Ilsa was told there’d be a debrief once on the ground in Langley, but after that? She assumed she would be free to go. It was then that she felt truly idiotic, to the point of slamming her palm into her forehead and sniffling as a tear came down her cheek. How stupid she could be! She should’ve stayed in London! Parted ways with the Americans nice and early and go somewhere. Anywhere!

Just a matter of going.

              But…  

              The midair upset, which very nearly took the remaining lives of the IMF, would’ve still happened whether Ilsa was aboard or not. She wasn’t sure what caused it, but she knew for sure that she had nothing to do with it. It still would’ve happened, but she wouldn’t have been there in the bathroom and conveniently perched to take action. To take a gun and break into the cockpit and regain control.

              The gun!

              Ilsa pulled herself out of bed and reached into the deep pocket of her overcoat. One benefit of disembarking an aircraft is you’re never checked by airport security again unless you’re on layover. Shannon was Ilsa’s final destination, for now. She performed a quick inspection of the Beretta. Ejecting the magazine and the round in the chamber. Ilsa counted fifteen rounds remaining.

              She slid the magazine back into the Beretta, and slid it under her pillow.

              She propped herself up on her elbows and took a look across the room at the television screen. She hadn’t really cared what channel it was tuned to when turning it on. She just needed the background noise of chatter. This particular chatter was not some fictional drama of a cheating husband or wife. It was a 24-hour news channel. And naturally, the biggest news story was an emergency landing in Shannon.

              Many headlines were slowly crawling from right to left along the bottom of the screen.

              …U.S military transport aircraft makes emergency landing in Shannon. No reported casualties. Some hospitalised with injuries but not believed to be life-threating…

              …Fresh calls for review of Shannon layover status for American warplanes…

              She blinked.

              …Ilsa Faust remains in critical condition with insatiable lust and yearning for Ethan Hunt…

              She decided then and there that she really needed to go to sleep and the news was far too depressing to use as a sedative. She flicked through the channels until she found a rerun of a Swedish crime drama she remembered watching as a girl. Hearing her mother tongue again was quite an experience, a sense of nostalgia. She hadn’t spoken or heard it since her time working with The Bone Doctor in London.

              It became instantly effective and she was out like a lamp.

 

She was fully expecting some sort of a nightmare. Either an old childhood memory being triggered by the late-night crime show, as she had as many demons from the past as she did in the present, or some sort of nightmare involving Ethan. Him getting hurt and in a far more fatal way, the bombs in Kashmir being triggered or him bleeding out in the middle of the aisle in her arms.

              She had no dreams whatsoever that night and Ilsa was almost disappointed as she awoke, propping herself up on her elbows and feeling blinded. She squinted to the realisation that she never drew her curtains. She would’ve liked at least some sort of image of him happy and healthy, maybe even his body being in her arms in a far more pleasant way. Waking up together, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears and speculating about what to make for breakfast or what they wanted to do for the day, excluding each other.

              Ilsa felt an intermittent buzzing coming from nearby and she knew already that she had none of her toys on her person. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and reached over for her phone, which was left on vibrate. It was Luther. She answered straight away, unsure of how many attempts had been made before.

              “Hey, sorry if I woke you but Benji and I are about to go see Ethan. He’s under observation at the Ennis Hospital. Only about ten minutes’ driving? You down?”

              “Does the pope shit in the woods?” Ilsa snorted.

              “Wouldn’t know, didn’t last that long in Catholic school.”

              Benji had the honours of driving. It could’ve been a contest between him and Ilsa, the former being originally from the UK and the latter being more accustomed to right-hand drive cars and driving on the port side of the road, but Ilsa said she felt too fried to trust herself behind a wheel. The whole experience thirty thousand feet above Ireland having gotten to her, not just the terrifying dive but the stress and tension of making the approach and landing at night. Benji and Luther understood, even if she was bending the truth slightly. Ilsa reckoned she could handle a car even in such a state as it was one of the things she was trained for, but she was just looking for the best excuse to be in the back of the car and alone with her thoughts.

              It was just ten minutes and she needed every second. What was she going to say to Ethan? He was going to have many questions. What on earth happened up there, how did the entire crew end up being incapacitated and how did Ilsa get the plane back down on the ground…

              Are you okay, honey…?

              Ilsa felt that such a question coming from his lips was too much to hope for, but she was unsure whether she could keep herself together. She did a much better job of it in Kashmir, but she chalked that up to residual adrenaline keeping her emotions at bay and just being relieved to see Ethan being safe and sound after yet another near brush with death. She’d come within an inch of being strangled by Lane’s hand and it takes time to process such experiences, regardless of the extent of one’s training. Everyone is still human at the end of the day.

              The long legs of flying from Kashmir, through Central Asia and then into Europe had given her time to reflect and realise what she really wanted in life. Or who…

              The sky was grey and overcast. The roads and surrounding streets of Ennis being damp from recent rain. Irish weather was a blatant copy of Britain’s and it didn’t surprise her in the slightest. The only difference Ilsa could notice from her observation point in the back seat of the rental car, amid drips on the window, was an additional language on the road signs.

              She could picture drips on her own cheeks once she saw Ethan. Her feelings for him had finally been allowed to bubble up and there was no way to cram them back down again. She figured she could try a drinking binge as a last resort, but she also knew she would have to accept it as a temporary solution. The permanent one was going to have repercussions either way. Either she loses her status as a single woman, or loses her best friend. And it wasn’t even up to her. She couldn’t just stay quiet forever. It was becoming physically painful within her cranium at this point.

              “Hey, you okay back there?” Luther softly asked, looking at her in the overhead mirror while fixing it into a more convenient position.

              Ilsa sensed a quick glance from Benji before he focused on an approaching red light and came to a stop. She rubbed her eyes and just said she had a poor night’s rest.

              “Join the club,” Luther sighed, letting out a yawn which seemed more theatrical to Ilsa than anything else.

              They pulled up outside the hospital and Benji said he’d go park the car. Luther and Ilsa watched him glide away around a corner and looked at each other. They asked with a raising of the eyebrows if they were ready for this and answered each other by pushing their way through the doors in unison. They asked for Ethan Hunt and were instructed to go to the elevators and that he’d be on D Wing, second floor.

              Luther didn’t utter a single syllable during the tense few seconds alone in the elevator together. Ilsa wondered if he knew exactly how she was feeling, not just about Ethan in general but in that current moment? What they should expect, what should they say and keep to themselves?

              There was the almighty chime and the doors exhaled open onto the second floor. They stepped out and spotted the massive D painted on the opposite wall in a faded shade of blue. There was a nurse behind a desk, in the middle of filling out some sort of form. Ilsa asked for Ethan Hunt and they were directed towards the doors of a private room. At least he wasn’t suffering with others, Ilsa assured herself.  

              Ilsa took some breaths as Luther’s arm came up to pull down the handle and open the door. Okay, okay…just smile when you see him. He’s alive, he’ll get better. Ethan Hunt always comes back safe and sound.

              He was just lying there. Arms by his sides, eyes closed and chest only faintly rising and falling. Various cables and tubes emanating from him.

              Luther let out a sigh while Ilsa experienced a short circuit. Why was he still unconscious?! It made no sense! She vocalised this to Luther who then closed his eyes and huffed. It wasn’t from annoyance at her but rather at himself.

              “Sorry, I forgot to tell you,” he began with a sigh.

              “Tell me what?!” Ilsa demanded impatiently.

              “The doctors said that they had to put him into a medically-induced coma. His brain has just suffered too much damage over the past few days. The events of last night, hitting various parts of his body against solid aircraft interior and that’s just following exposure up in those mountains before we found him back in Kashmir.”

              “Medically-induced?” Ilsa exclaimed, looking frantically at Ethan and Luther. “For how long?”

              “Could be a few hours, few days, there’s no way of knowing,” he replied, touching her on the elbow in a vain attempt to provide comfort. “It’s entirely up to him.”

              “You sound awfully sure,” Ilsa muttered.

              “He’ll get it done.”

              “There’s a difference between potential brain damage and saving the world from destruction.”

              “He’s saving your world from destruction,” Luther said, looking at her and Ilsa snapped her gaze back at him. It cut deep, there was no getting around it, but it was intended to get her attention and it certainly worked. “Hey, I’m sorry to be so forward but if I can figure out how you really feel about him, then he can too. He may not show it? But Ethan is good at hiding how he feels towards certain people.”

              “Why would he hide it from me, though?” Ilsa spluttered.

              Then Luther gave her that trademark tilt of the head and raising of the eyebrows. “Same reason you’re keeping yours from him. Neither of you wants to take the first shot because you both worry that it could lead to a dissolution of what it is that you have.”

              “If he knows how I feel then how can he see that as a possibility?”

              “Because the thought of him being wrong is always deep in his mind. He has to do the mental math of whether he’s willing to take the risk. It’s a calculated risk, sure, but he’s still unsure of the percentage.”

              “I could tell him right now.”

              “Will you? If he woke up right now, this second, would you tell him exactly how you feel and what you want with him? Straight away, no hesitation?”

              “Well…” Ilsa began, her voice oozing with uncertainty and she didn’t help her defence by folding her arms. Classic sign of a retreat into denial.

Luther rolled his eyes and quietly chuckled.

“What?” she continued with a shrug. “It’s not exactly something I should start with when he wakes up, I’ll be calling the doctor or nurses to let them know.”

              “There’s always an excuse, isn’t there?”

              The door creaked slightly as a third person was now joining the observation party. There was the initial assumption it’d be Benji. However, Ilsa’s heart was already pounding with anxiety and anger when she looked over her shoulder and found herself facing the intruder to her personal space. Faust’s own hands by her sides and balled into fists.

              “Speaking of excuses…” Erika Sloane, with two men in sunglasses and earpieces behind her, began. She folded her arms and looked at them both individually, like a headmaster having to deal with sparring pupils in her office. “…what’s yours, this time?”

Chapter 7: Checks and Balances

Summary:

“Your men are talking? What about the pilots, what have they said?” Ilsa immediately interrupted.
Sloane gave her a suspicious narrowing of her gaze. “Just that something went wrong up there. A major upset that very nearly led to the crash of the plane. You were reported to have been using the bathroom when the upset occurred. The bathroom being right near the flight deck. Anything you want to tell me?”
“Yes,” Ilsa nodded, sighing and looking at a random spot on the wall. Classic sign of an upcoming and defeated confession. She briefly folded her arms before bringing her hand up to the side of her face and gazed away in contemplation. A slight shake of the head with regret. Profound.
“…I retreated to the bathroom, then reached through the toilet bowl, up through the pipes and took the controls because I felt like committing air piracy in the heat of the moment…” she said, sighing again to bring it to a conclusion.
She could sense Luther snickering in the corner of her eye and it made Ilsa giggle too while they glanced at each other to show their support for one another.

The room in which Ethan Hunt was recuperating was quite satisfactory at first glance. Ilsa had read stories about overcrowding in Irish hospitals being just as bad as those in the UK, becoming so serious to the point of patients remaining on trolleys in corridors. Ethan’s worst injury was a concussion and in her mind it made sense that he’d be purposely placed into a coma to protect his already-traumatised brain and give it time to take a well-deserved breather.

              He had his own bed, a window behind him overlooking the street below with a vase of multicoloured flowers. They looked like they could do with a change, Ilsa reckoned and she was already picturing herself going to a nearby florist to get fresh ones of her own choosing. Maybe go to a newsagents and buy some magazines or a newspaper to read to him. If he could hear her while in said coma, she figured he would want to know what was going on in the world which he worked so hard to save and protect.

Ilsa had no issues admitting to herself that she would’ve wanted the same thing if the roles were reversed. She would want to know! Like, if Solomon Lane had escaped from British custody, for instance. Lord, please no…

              There was a soft armchair beside Ethan’s hospital bed as the monitor quietly ticked away. Ilsa could easily settle into the chair, maybe curl her legs up underneath her bottom as she flicked through a page and maybe start with more light-hearted news. Did Irish newspapers cover NFL? Did Ethan even watch American football?

              Is it even ‘football’…?

              Ilsa realised there were several small things she didn’t know about the man for whom she was falling in heaps and somersaults. However, she was more than eager to learn! It used to be her job to gather information after all. This time it wasn’t for a country or a government. It was to be for herself.

 

However, one feature of the room she did not appreciate, was a more animate one. In her cream-coloured overcoat and a condescending tutting sound, Erika Sloane shot in ahead of Ilsa and sat herself down in the armchair Faust was craving so badly. Ilsa was becoming more and more irritated by her every millisecond.

Sloane leaned forward to peer at the readings on the monitor.

“Touch any part of that machine and I break your fucking neck!” Ilsa hissed, folding her arms and glaring down at Sloane. “Do you understand me?”

              The Director snapped her gaze up at Ilsa and smirked with a shake of the head. She then nodded past Ilsa and a silent Luther Stickell at the two men standing in the doorway. Ilsa recognised them straight away as two of the four mercs aboard the 727. Neither of them was the owner of the commandeered Beretta digging itself into Ilsa’s right rib. She was somewhat impressed by how quickly they were gone from the ordeal and subsequent hospital beds, now changed from revealing black polo shirts and cargo pants to formal suits and black overcoats.

              “Those two will break yours in just two seconds, honey, just try it…” Erika nodded with a menacing beam.

              “They need two seconds? I only need one,” Ilsa quietly retorted. “I won’t try anything, unless provoked.”

              Sloane looked down at Ilsa’s shoes and made a show of scanning her from toe to head, returning her gaze to her mid-area and tutted again.

              “Well, a bit of agitation is to be expected. You’re folding your arms. A classic sign of defence and desperation. A guy you’ve worked with closely on a number of occasions is lying vulnerable and on the brink and you can’t do anything about it.”

              “I’m doing more than you are,” Ilsa snorted, allowing her hands to fall and Sloane chuckled at the deflation.

              “I’m merely paying him a visit,” Sloane said, gesturing her hand at Ethan while still looking at Ilsa. “I don’t see you doing anything more than that? Unless I interrupted a certain…”

              “Go on, finish the sentence!” Ilsa snapped, her arms falling instantly, fists clenched again by her hips.

              “Hey, easy, easy,” Luther said gently, touching her on the arm. Ilsa instinctively shook it away. She gave Luther an apologetic look but also a tilt of the head to tell him not to do it again without explicit reason. He weakly raised his hands to show peace.

              “Look, I didn’t come here to exchange barbs.”

              “Then why did you come here? Ran out of agents at Langley already?” Ilsa shrugged.

              Sloane frowned and got up from the armchair.

              Ilsa’s hands remained by her sides but balled into fists. She wouldn’t have had any compunction about throwing Sloane out of the window in front of her own men. They could do what they wanted with her afterwards. She was not going to have even the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency waltzing in and disturbing Ethan’s precious rest. It was debatable whether he could actually hear what was around him or not, but she wasn’t going to take the risk.

              Unless Ethan ends up hearing me in distress being taken away and it stresses him out beyond the point of recovery…?

              “I simply want to know what the cause behind this whole international shitstorm would be?” Sloane shrugged. “Something as simple as a flight to bring you guys back home to American soil – well, them, not you since you’re still a citizen of the Empire – and it all turns upside down. Quite literally, from what my men told me so far?”

              “Your men are talking? What about the pilots, what have they said?” Ilsa immediately interrupted.

              Sloane gave her a suspicious narrowing of her gaze. “Just that something went wrong up there. A major upset that very nearly led to the crash of the plane. You were reported to have been using the bathroom when the upset occurred. The bathroom being right near the flight deck. Anything you want to tell me?”

              “Yes,” Ilsa nodded, sighing and looking at a random spot on the wall. Classic sign of an upcoming and defeated confession. She briefly folded her arms before bringing her hand up to the side of her face and gazed away in contemplation. A slight shake of the head with regret. Profound.

“…I retreated to the bathroom, then reached through the toilet bowl, up through the pipes and took the controls because I felt like committing air piracy in the heat of the moment…” she said, sighing again to bring it to a conclusion.

              She could sense Luther snickering in the corner of her eye and it made Ilsa giggle too while they glanced at each other to show their support for one another.

              “I don’t think you’re funny,” Sloane tutted.

              “I don’t think this whole situation is funny!” Ilsa barked. “Something happened that nearly got us killed up there! A flight that you hired, no less!”

              “What exactly are you implying, Miss Faust?”

              Ilsa folded her arms and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Sorry, I forgot you Yanks need everything spelled out to you! It shouldn’t surprise me, considering you call a liquid gas.”

              She paused momentarily to glance over at Luther and tilt her head to apologise. He waved it off. He’d heard and endured far worse insults in his lifetime. She then turned her guns back on Sloane.

              “Need I even mention that you were on a different flight? Quite convenient for you, don’t you think?”

              Sloane took one more step forward. Ilsa did the same and it triggered a response from the men behind them. Sloane raised a hand, accompanied by a stern look, to tell them to remain in position. It was okay, she had this.

              “Miss Faust, what exactly are you suggesting? Okay, you think I tried to have you lot killed. Okay, enlighten me. How – pray tell – was I planning on pulling it off?”

              Ilsa said nothing.

              “The fact you’re not lying at the bottom of the Atlantic, embedded with shrapnel, is already telling you it wasn’t a bomb. None of my men got up to discharge a weapon and kill each and every single one of you. Both of those scenarios would’ve resulted in their own deaths too since I need hardly explain what a bullet passing through a body and piercing the fuselage would do to the airframe?”

              Ilsa remained silent. Luther looked at her, slightly concerned. He could read defeat in her eyes. Genuine defeat, this time.

              “We all have budgets. A lost aircraft is a bit too high of a price to pay for eliminating three IMF members and one former MI6 employee. Even for Uncle Sam. Times are tough. Budgets cut back, understaffing, told to do more with less. Name an employer who doesn’t demand that of their employees these days? I may direct the agency? But that includes the accountants as well. If I wanted you dead? You’d all be lying at the bottom of that lake in Kashmir with bullets to the heads. Painted as informants for Pakistan as far as the Indian Army would be concerned. Being in cahoots with John Lark and The Apostles. Bullets to the head for treason, sanctioned by the White House directly. An international issue solved nice and easy, thousands of miles from home soil. I mean, hell, we wouldn’t have even bothered rescuing Hunt in the first place from that ledge. We’d have just labelled him as missing, presumed dead.”

              Ilsa and Luther looked at each other. Unable to argue.

              “If anything, it would’ve saved the department a few quick bucks not to put you lot on a plane.”

              “So you’re here for damage limitation, then?” Ilsa asked, more flatness in her voice.

              “Oh, the damage has been done! The Irish government has already been dealing with protests both by the public and opposition ministers, regarding our use of Shannon Airport for refuelling our aircraft bound for the Middle East. Now a ‘military flight’ encounters a mishap and landed by someone who was not recognised as being part of the flight crew…?” Sloane said, deliberately trailing off.

              “Yes, I do sincerely apologise,” Ilsa nodded, feeling the fire intensifying inside her chest. “Next time I’m aboard a plane with a few of your men and no one else can physically fly the jet, I’ll be sure to keep my distance! Wouldn’t want your department budget being hurt!”

              “You think it’s all about action and adventure, don’t you?” Erika chuckled with exasperation. “All of you,” she added, looking at Luther.

              “Wha…what’s going on?!” Benji Dunn could then be heard spluttering from the other side of the doorway.

There was a hand from each of the two men on Benji’s shoulders and he was frantically looking at both of them, the process of mutual recognition not being dragged out. The men made one glance at Sloane for confirmation and she nodded at them to let Benji go. He then brushed down his jacket and looked at Ilsa and Luther with utter confusion.

              “As I was saying…” Sloane muttered before clearing her throat. “I have the State Department breathing down my neck over this whole affair. My task is to clean up. That means getting everyone involved with this whole incident out of Ireland and back on a plane to Washington. It’s bad enough the Irish have access to that plane since it’s utterly unflyable now.”

              “Yes, heaven forbid their investigators find out what happened up there…” Ilsa said with sarcasm oozing from her voice. “We were almost all killed.”

              “Turbulence,” Sloane shrugged.

              “Wh..what?” Ilsa stammered, caught off-guard. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

              “Turbulence! Disturbances in the air caused by poor weather or other environmental factors. Generally it’s becoming more intense these days, thanks to ongoing changes in global temperatures. Turbulence has never brought down a plane and you’ve helped maintain that record and the department is most grateful,” Sloane smugly smiled.

              “There is no way the official investigation will come to that conclusion,” Ilsa snorted.

              “Which investigation? The investigation being conducted right here in Ireland? Let me be perfectly blunt, Miss Faust…but our government does not give a damn about this country. It’s tiny, defenceless. We could squash it in an hour if we wanted. No NATO membership, no Article 5 to be worried about. We have enough problems both at home and overseas. Whatever conclusion they come to? I’m sure their report will be an interesting read for anyone concerned but like with everything else? It’ll be all forgotten about and the world will move onto the next crisis. There’s a new one every week.”

              “Easy for you to say, you weren’t up there last night.”

              “And neither were you!” Sloane suddenly bellowed, getting right in Ilsa’s face. She then raised her eyebrows. “Am I being perfectly clear?”

              “Crystal,” Ilsa said, unfazed by the closeness of Sloane to her in that very moment. She reckoned she ate a Ceaser Salad within the last hour or so. She’d only just arrived back in Europe by plane. Langley’s budget cuts were clearly not affecting the catering department, it seemed.

              Sloane stepped back and looked at Luther and Benji, one final look over her shoulder at Ethan and finally returning to Ilsa. “The mission proceeds. Another jet is on its way here from Andrews. You’ll be on it and over the Atlantic by this time tomorrow. Once you’re on the ground in Washington, there’ll be a debrief and we can all move on with our lives. In the mean-time, continue to be holed up wherever it is you’re holed up. Got it?”

              There were three quiet nods.

              “Gentlemen,” she concluded with a nod and brushed past Ilsa. The door closed behind her along with her men.

Faust found herself being met by sympathetic looks from her coworkers.

              The looks of sympathy then turned to one of surprise and awe as Ilsa revealed her phone’s screen illuminated and an animated recording reel rotating in the centre. Ilsa pressed the red button to officially stop the recording, saved the file and rewound it just to be sure. She hit play and they could hear Sloane with an intermittent burst of static.

              “…our government does not give a damn about this country. It’s tiny, defenceless. We could squash it in an hour if we so wanted…”

              “Damn, Ilsa!” Luther exclaimed. “I never noticed!”

              She shrugged. “I figured I may as well have a personal Black Box. It may come in handy later.”

              They took a few moments to take in the latest developments regarding the situation and Ilsa finally got to sit down in the armchair and reached out to touch Ethan’s hand. She felt unexpectedly angry at the chair already being warmed by Sloane. Almost like a personal violation. She just wanted to stay here with Ethan, so long as he was a patient at this hospital. Remain by his side, whether he was conscious or unconscious. Just so long as those concerned knew that she was here for him and no one else.

However, Ilsa knew she still had to find out what happened in the sky last night and why. It was paramount.

              “So,” Luther began. “Sloane doesn’t know her own pilots erased the recording. Or maybe she does and she doesn’t want to admit it? What employer would admit that they only hire idiots?”

              “Either way, I don’t trust her any further than I could throw her,” Ilsa said, keeping her gaze upon Ethan.

              Luther and Benji looked at each other and shrugged to concede the point.

              “So we’ll refrain from handing over the recordings for as long as we can,” Luther concluded.

              “I’d sooner give it to Lane…” Ilsa sighed, trailing off and becoming lost in the moment. She then clenched her eyes at the realisation of what she just said and turned to them. The understandably weirded-out looks on their faces.

              “The tape, I mean!” she frantically clarified.

Chapter 8: Remotely

Summary:

It was a tense and quiet drive back to the hotel. Roughly ten minutes, but they were among the longest ten minutes of Ilsa’s life. She figured she had at least a slight edge over Sloane now, even if the latter was unaware of it. Either way, she felt horrible for leaving Ethan’s side. They needed sustenance, a recharge and a chance to regather what they knew so far about their ordeal. It was a certain ruthlessness. A necessary evil. Ilsa couldn’t deny that Ethan was distracting but that wasn’t always a good thing, especially in the middle of a personal investigation.
That was the excuse she was going with anyway, rather than the simple fact of Sloane killing the mood of what Ilsa had initially hoped would be a peaceful bedside stay.

It was a tense and quiet drive back to the hotel. Roughly ten minutes, but they were among the longest ten minutes of Ilsa’s life. She figured she had at least a slight edge over Sloane now, even if the latter was unaware of it. Either way, she felt horrible for leaving Ethan’s side. They needed sustenance, a recharge and a chance to regather what they knew so far about their ordeal. It was a certain ruthlessness. A necessary evil. Ilsa couldn’t deny that Ethan was distracting but that wasn’t always a good thing, especially in the middle of a personal investigation.

              That was the excuse she was going with anyway, rather than the simple fact of Sloane killing the mood of what Ilsa had initially hoped would be a peaceful bedside stay.

              She then thought of the fact that Luther and Benji had left their laptops and general gadgets at the hotel. That’s it! How could they work without them? She doubted hospital staff would permit their presence right next to all the equipment keeping Ethan going.

              They stopped by a convenience store and bought themselves readymade sandwiches and bottled water. Hardly top-class meals but it was something at least. They were still human at the end of the day, no matter what others seemed to think of them. An impatient Ilsa’s sandwich was pretty basic, a turkey, cheese and mayo combination. They retreated into Luther and Benji’s room and she finished her food while they fired up their devices. She shook her head and smirked when she saw them munching into their sandwiches right over their laptop keyboards. Plenty of gaps for crumbs to slip inside. Their money for the replacements, not mine.

              She whipped out her phone and made sure the audio file was safe and secure. She then retreated to her other key piece of evidence. The massive chunk taken out of the leading edge of the right wing, the leaking hydraulic fluid.

              “Slats and flaps should only be used during take-off and landing,” she pondered aloud.

              Benji looked up and Luther nodded.

              “Slats slide out in front of the wing while the flaps slide backwards from the trailing edge. They increase the surface area of the wing, depending on the selection the pilots choose from, with the lever next to the throttles? Varying degrees of angle of deployment. It can range from a setting of 2 to 30 degrees on most aircraft. Are we all good so far?” she continued.

              Both of them nodded.

              Ilsa then turned her phone around in her hand and they looked at the damage on the starboard wing. If only the black boxes had to be accessed from the same side, they’d have been able to see it for themselves.

              “Take-off and landing, not in cruise flight,” Ilsa emphasised. “The only way a slat could be damaged to the point of being torn away from the wing is either through shoddy maintenance and it just fell away, or it was ripped away because of intense force from the oncoming air hitting it…due to being deployed in flight. Deliberately. Investigators always keep an open mind about what might have been the cause, but the fact that they erased the voice recorder has pretty much made my mind up. Mine anyway.”

              Benji momentarily looked away and took a breath.

              “Something you want to say, Benji?” Ilsa asked.

              “I’m good,” he denied with an awkward smirk.

              “Come on, man, we’re all on the same side here,” Luther said.

              He sucked in another lungful of air and fired his shot. “Maybe they erased the tape in a moment of panic. Not to avoid being caught out for wrongdoing in operating the plane…but pilots are humans, too? They talk. Not just about aviation but they talk about their personal lives. How their marriage is going, mortgage payments, how they’re going to send their children to university. What if one of them admitted to cheating on his spouse? The bank foreclosing on their house?”

              “And they erased the tape because of a crisis that hit and they had no idea what was causing it?” Luther said.

              Benji nodded with a sudden burst of excitement, the mere thought of being listened to. It wasn’t that he never felt included, he just often felt like he always had something new to learn. He was still ‘the new guy’.

              “And if they didn’t know what caused it, then they couldn’t be sure whether it was survivable or not,” Ilsa continued. “So, someone incriminated themselves and didn’t want to be remembered as a philanderer or cheat or whatever. They could feel themselves blacking out at the time and reached for the button to erase the voice recorder. I found all three of them unconscious so it could be possible?”

              Luther and Ilsa looked at each other with intrigue and Benji could only smile with satisfaction. He had contributed! He wouldn’t have minded high-fives either but Ethan Hunt was still lying in hospital in a coma. It was a time to be satisfied with one’s ability to theorise, but not to celebrate. Their brief time in Ireland felt like a visit to Purgatory, their actions ultimately deciding their fate.

              “Thank you, Benji,” Ilsa nodded.

              He nodded back to tell her she was welcome.       

              “I’ll go do some digging on these guys,” Luther said, his keyboard rattling like a symphony of research.

              Ilsa turned on the television and flicked it to the 24-hour news station. The mid-air mishap still dominated the headlines. The footage she was watching was of the ruined aircraft just sitting alone on the tarmac at Shannon where Ilsa herself had brought it to a stop. The camera was positioned behind the wire fencing surrounding the perimeter. No interviews with any investigators. Sloane hadn’t decided to give herself any air time and so far the official investigation wasn’t showing any findings.

              …Ireland neutrality ‘paramount to national identity’ – opposition spokesperson….

              …Mass outrage at cancellations at Shannon Airport due to emergency landing…

              …Criticism at Shannon Airport for delays with towing accident aircraft and clearing runway for resumption of flying…

              …U.S Government accused of ‘bringing their wars and destruction’ to Ireland…

              …Flights from Shannon expected to resume by evening…

              Ilsa shook her head, rubbing the tip of the remote control against her chin, to clear the opinions of others from her head. She already knew she wasn’t helping her case by watching the news. It could cloud her judgement. The precise opposite of what any seasoned investigator would do. She didn’t consider herself a seasoned investigator. She was a trained assassin who wanted a more conventional life. Working on this mishap in which she had been caught up was a hurdle she needed to overcome in order to accomplish that goal. There was also the elephant in the room of spilling her guts to Ethan, but that was a bridge she’d cross when she came to it. The bridge itself being out of commission for the time being, in for repairs.

              She could then see an airport vehicle filtering into the shot with an orange rotating light flashing on the ceiling. It was an airport tow-truck. It explained why Sloane had already sent an aircraft to come pick them up and instructed them to stay close by. She could’ve arranged for it to land at other airports nearby such as Knock or Cork, but this was all about keeping the crisis contained.

              The tow-truck’s arrival was accompanied by a new headline and it prompted Ilsa to look over her shoulder at Luther and Benji.

              “New problem, guys!” she said, getting them to raise their heads and she gestured with the remote at the screen. They both had to lean forward and narrow their gaze to see the brand new headline.

              Breaking: AAIU reports Black Box recorders missing from aircraft.

              …AAIU spokesperson: Cockpit Voice Recorder and Flight Data Recorder “critical” for understanding timeline of events…

              “So much for keeping Sloane in the dark about the erased tape. She’s going to know that we have them. If the Irish don’t have them and she sure as shit knows that the Agency doesn’t have them. Only a matter of time before she corners us. We need to move faster,” Luther commented.

              It’s not like the recorders would give Sloane any more information than they were giving the IMF, Ilsa figured. It wasn’t what was heard on them that was so damning, but what was absent. One could also conclude that the recorder had malfunctioned, overstressed by the intense dive. However, recorders had evolved in the near 60 years since their introduction. Built to resist intense crashes with hardened steel cases, while being installed within an aluminium and carbon-fibre skeleton.

              Besides, how could it have recorded the middle of the dive, then the recovery and Ilsa’s emergency landing after the mid-air incident if it had been malfunctioning?

              Ilsa grinned to herself, while beginning to bite the bottom end of the remote. It was much narrower than the top part and easier to nibble on. Most people chewed on pens. She had no pen. She considered handing over the voice recorder to Sloane after all. Perhaps if the Director had what some referred to as a ‘Competence Kink’, then she could listen to Ilsa saving the aircraft and handling the emergency to her heart’s content.

              Kink…

              “From what I found on these guys, nothing stands out,” Luther sighed. “All three came from generations of pilots dating all the way back to World War Two. Went straight into the air force from high school, seven tours in Iraq and Afghanistan between them. Spotless records.”

              “And now they operate chartered flights for the CIA,” Benji said with a ridiculing tone.

              “Gotta pay the bills somehow,” Luther countered. “All three have kids nearing college age. Not exactly a cheap process in America.”

              Benji shrugged to concede. He then brought up his own laptop a tad closer. “Um, I just found something here myself. When it comes to the Boeing 727 specifically? In order for the slats to extend in-flight accidentally, they’d need a force of seventy times the force of gravity to overcome the oncoming air. 70 Gs!”

              “Not really surprising when you think about it,” Ilsa muttered, the tip of the remote partially blocking her mouth. “When in cruise flight, the average jetliner is moving at a speed of eight tenths the speed of sound. Mach 0.80 - to be more technical. Even if there was a malfunction and the slats were no longer locked in the stowed position, the air resistance would keep them forced into the neutral position anyway. The wing would keep its proper shape.”

              “In other words, there’s only one reason why those slats deployed,” Luther said.

              “Pilot action,” Ilsa concluded. “They erased the tape to cover their arses, not to cover up some affair or repossession.”

              “But why? It makes zero sense!” Benji exclaimed.

              On the contrary, the more Ilsa watched the news, the more things made sense. She still knew it was the wrong thing to do as an investigator but she felt more justified than ever. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Even if it was hardly a hundred percent of the puzzle so far. It was still better than nothing and she was more confident than ever that she was on the right track.

              She was watching an even fresher headline.

              …AAIU regrets ‘lack of opportunity’ to speak to pilots of stricken aircraft…

              Ilsa remained silent as she gave Benji and Luther critical seconds to look at the screen and see it for themselves.

              “What the hell?” Luther gasped, unable to hide his bewilderedness.

              “She got them out, already? Are we reading this right?” Benji added in astonishment.

              Ilsa became too lost in imagining the smug look on Sloane’s face right about now. She was about to get her pilots, the culprits, out of the prying eyes and back to where they could be kept quiet. Either through monetary means or the point of a pistol. Maybe even the threat of Gitmo. Maybe Ilsa should definitely send her the voice recorder tape of her outperforming the men on her payroll. If it doesn’t get a kink going, it’d get the jealousy juices going for sure.

              Kink…juices…

              Ilsa had gone beyond the biting stage when it came to the remote. Her tongue was running around the end of the plastic contraption and she realised she’d gone too far when she let out the tiniest of moans. She thought of Ethan, in the hospital bed. In his own room, a closed door which could be easily locked from the inside and the blinds shut from the outside world. The only thing standing between Ethan and well-deserved pleasure was his hospital gown.

              “Ilsa?”

              The sound of him convulsing as she got him close. His hands balling into fists as they clutched onto the bedsheets. Unable to resist. He better not resist! She wanted to make him decompress. An explosive decompression at that.

              “Ilsa!”

              She snapped out of it, yanking the remote from her mouth. Her back was still turned to them while she faced the television but she figured at least one of them must’ve heard her moaning.

              She wanted to see Ethan.

              She needed him.

              “I’ve got to go,” Ilsa then said, letting the remote fall onto the foot of Benji’s bed and snatching the car keys from the nightstand sitting between both beds. She ignored the protests from both men and experienced a sudden burst of peace and determination as the door closed behind her, while she headed straight for the elevator.

Chapter 9: Patterns

Summary:

There was a light rain forming and Ilsa clicked the fob to lock the car and dashed towards the building, using the overhead gutters for temporary shelter while making her way around the perimeter and up the steps, in through the main doors. She kept her phone on silent. Her senses were too well-trained to ignore the vibrate function. Benji and Luther would either be concerned, or resentful at being ditched and stranded. Perhaps both. Either way, Ilsa had to be ruthless and keep them blocked from the forefront of her mind.
Ethan remained too dominant in her thoughts.
Ironically, one thought of hers involved Ilsa herself being dominant with him. Pinning his arms back with an agreed safe-word and taking full charge.
My god…what is happening to me?!

*

While tending to Ethan's bedside, Ilsa recalls a dark period from her past while contemplating the future.

Notes:

This chapter contains references to suicide as well as non-con! Apologies for not tagging this fic properly from the very beginning!

The rental car was a Vauxhall Corsa, otherwise known as ‘Opel’ outside the UK. Ilsa wasn’t sure of the reason behind the UK naming choice and she felt she wasn’t in a position to complain. It handled well, the steering wheel was mounted on the same side of the car she was accustomed to, as a naturalised Briton, and she had zero issues managing the components.

Especially the radio.

              “I don’t know why, sometimes I get frightened…can see my eyes, you can tell that I’m not lying…”

The lyrics from the 1980 hit from New Zealand blared out from behind the speakers. It was one of the most relatable songs Ilsa had ever heard. She thought of Split Enz as a savagely underrated group for their time.

              It felt even more fitting how the title of the song was “I Got You”. She may not have reached the stage of having Ethan Hunt in her bed or being in his, but she still felt like she ‘got’ him. He was in her life and a significant part of it, nonetheless. They’d taken turns in saving each other’s arses when it truly mattered and demonstrated their care for one another. And the world still managed to be saved in the process, every single time. For now.

Ilsa wasn’t in the best of moods due to the ongoing circumstances, but she still felt like one hell of a lucky woman. She had no doubt that Ethan was the man for her and no matter Luther’s admirable attempts of reassurance, Ilsa still had to contemplate the possibility of the feelings being one-sided. She’d be sad, sure. But she would still feel grateful that she met living proof that there were decent men in the world. Men who would stand up for what was right, no matter how difficult the odds may have been.

She would be more than willing to ensure his happiness. All he had to do was give her the chance. But it was still down to her to present him with said opportunity. All he would have to do was to say the word and she would be all his for life.

However, one of them had to fire the shot eventually.

Ilsa still couldn’t comprehend the difficulty. She could resist intense G-forces from a death-defying nosedive to earth and save a commercial airliner with basically zero experience, guiding it down to a safe landing without losing her nerve when it mattered. And yet the thought of spilling her guts to Ethan still made her stomach churn as she checked for oncoming traffic at a roundabout.  

She’d forgotten to use her indicator. However, she figured if anything, she would be blending in among all the local motorists from what she could observe. So she didn’t let it get to her too much.

She crawled the Corsa around the hospital building and found a suitable parking spot. She made sure to reverse into the place. She couldn’t understand those who drove straight in. They were only setting themselves up for more hardship when it came to reversing back out, all the while keeping an eye out for oncoming cars in either direction. It was much easier to judge the gap between two stationary and unoccupied cars in her experience.

There was a light rain forming and Ilsa clicked the fob to lock the car and dashed towards the building, using the overhead gutters for temporary shelter while making her way around the perimeter and up the steps, in through the main doors. She kept her phone on silent. Her senses were too well-trained to ignore the vibrate function. Benji and Luther would either be concerned, or resentful at being ditched and stranded. Perhaps both. Either way, Ilsa had to be ruthless and keep them blocked from the forefront of her mind.

Ethan remained too dominant in her thoughts.

Ironically, one thought of hers involved Ilsa herself being dominant with him. Pinning his arms back with an agreed safe-word and taking full charge.

My god…what is happening to me?!

She kept her breathing under control as the elevator doors closed in front of her and she selected the correct floor from memory. It didn’t take that much effort. They’d only been there to see Ethan earlier that afternoon. Ilsa was surprised she wasn’t hit by any ‘visiting hour’ bureaucracy at the reception, since she could see the same face behind the desk and a brief look of recognition was had.

Perhaps it was working to her advantage that hospitals in general were overworked and understaffed, to the point of such things not really mattering. They probably take out their frustrations and stresses in another way. Substance abuse, perhaps? So long as it wasn’t affecting Ethan’s recovery, Ilsa would’ve been lying to herself if she said she really cared. It sounded callous in her head as soon as she thought it, but she had to compartmentalise in order to survive.

The doors exhaled their way open and Ilsa stepped out onto the floor, walking right past a nurse leaning against the wall, hands covering her face as she sobbed profusely. Probably an emotional breakdown. Losing a patient she’d grown close to, Ilsa figured. She knew she was being cold from her indifference but as far as she was concerned, she was on a mission. An objective to be reached. Albeit a more personal one.

She came up to the door, had a peer through the narrow window and her eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. Her heart skipped a beat as her brain’s hard drive briefly froze and had to reboot. It was a scenario she hadn’t contemplated.

Ethan was sitting up, reading a newspaper.

He was awake!

“Ethan!” Ilsa gasped, bursting through the door.

The paper fell from his hands and he gave that smile. That damned smile! The tears were already falling down Ilsa’s cheeks as she dashed around the foot of his bed and allowed herself to fall forward into his embrace. Her hands slid around his back and squeezing between him and the sheets. She felt the ridge of his spine as she gripped the opposite sides of him. The two-day beard was scratching her cheek but Ilsa couldn’t have cared less. She was too busy sobbing. It was different from when it happened in the aisle the night before, while still aboard the aircraft. Ethan wasn’t conscious then, she couldn’t be sure if he could hear her crying for him. This time, there was zero doubt that he could.

“Hey! Hey, it’s alright. I’m alright!” Ethan assured her, stroking the back of her head and running his hand through her hair. He then moved his hand down her back and made random patterns with a single fingertip. Ilsa could feel herself melting even further. How did he know that she had a weakness for such things?!

She remembered how she and a girl she’d grown close to in a Stockholm orphanage would hang out in the room they shared and would randomly draw patterns on each other’s backs. They would have to guess if they were random or if they were trying to spell a word. Ilsa enjoyed it more because of the soothing effect it had on her nerves physically, rather than any kind of puzzle.

              Ilsa figured she had a file lying around somewhere in the MI6 archives. Detailing her background. The date and time her parents died, the address of the orphanage in which she spent the majority of her childhood, from the year she was placed there to the year she was released into the world. But there was no way said file would’ve said anything about her having a weakness for invisible patterns being drawn onto her back. The tingling sensation it gave her. Their room didn’t have cameras. She knew that for sure even after she was trained later in life to look out for and recall them. The only other witness was the girl she’d grown close to. The one who drew the patterns for her and she would reciprocate.

              Sarah…such a sweetheart. Stereotypically Swedish blond hair and eyes with a tropical blue sparkle.

              Sarah hung herself at the age of 13. Her way of dealing with the traumatic encounter  with one of the male orphans. She’d become fond of him and agreed to his suggestion of visiting him in his own room late at night when there was little supervision. Ilsa wasn’t so sure, but wasn’t listened to, either. She was awoken at three in the morning by sobbing as Sarah staggered back to her own bed. When Ilsa reached up and turned on her lamp, there was a redness on Sarah’s face, eyes swollen from tears and blotches of blood on her pants. Ilsa was able to put two and two together and the only thing she could do was ask for permission to hug her and then take her into her arms.

              Ilsa’s insistence of reporting the assault went nowhere. Sarah just felt dirty, ashamed and alone. There were no more watchalongs of shows together or hanging out. She just kept to herself in her bed, turned in towards the wall with her back to Ilsa for a number of days. Ilsa’s attempts at calling her name, to simply ask if she wanted to talk, were met with a sharp “I’m fine! Leave me alone!”

              A week or so after that fateful night, Ilsa returned to the room after her mandatory school day…to find the chair lying on its side in the middle the floor. What looked like a mannequin dangling from the ceiling fan overhead, the noose flimsily tied.

              Left and right.

              The twitch of the foot.

              The only other person who knew about Ilsa’s tingles.

              The one who attacked Sarah? The ‘person’ responsible for all of this? He was admitted to hospital the following day with a stab wound to the groin. Which led to full amputation of genitalia and the newly-formed eunuch taking his own life in the exact same manner as Sarah a month or so later. Ilsa wasn’t sure of the precise timeline in regards to him as those days remained quite blurry and numb in her memory.

However, she still considered it her first kill. Albeit indirectly.

She still wondered sometimes if differing actions on her part would’ve had the same outcome in regards to her sweet friend, Sarah. Regardless of which action she took. Had Ilsa pushed harder to report it or even done it herself, would it have driven Sarah to tie the noose around her neck anyway? Albeit sooner? Or if she didn’t ask her if she was okay every once and a while, would she have kicked the chair out from under her regardless from feeling neglected and uncared for?

Who really tied the noose around Sarah’s neck?

 

“What happened up there?” Ethan then quietly asked, mercifully plucking Ilsa out of her exceptionally dark and unexpected tangent. Albeit unintentionally.

              Ilsa propped herself up on an elbow, resting her head on her hand as she gazed into Ethan’s inquisitive eyes. She took a moment to really take it in. He was conscious again. Awake and somewhat alert. He needed a few more minutes and that was entirely understandable, but it hardly mattered. He came back to her!

              “How much do you remember?” she asked softly, realising then and there that she was using her free hand to stroke his chin and caress his cheek. She didn’t have to even think about it. Purely effortless. The two-day beard feeling almost ticklish under her palm and fingers.

              He gazed up at the ceiling, taking time to think. “I just remember a shuddering and we began banking to the right. Then we rolled over and I flew up towards the ceiling,” he said, before shrugging with a chuckle. “The things that remind us why seatbelts are a thing.”

              Ilsa giggled back. She wanted to playfully call him an idiot for not fastening his seatbelt as soon as the shuddering and bank began. However, she also knew first-hand that the thought of almost losing someone, and then getting them back equally as suddenly, quite significantly changes one’s perspective on what’s important and what isn’t.

              “Are you okay? You look a bit shaken,” Ethan then whispered, groaning slightly as he brought his hand up to stroke her temple and then moving up to the top of her head to give her hair scratches.

              Ilsa then brought him up to speed on the intense G-forces during the dive, the violent hurtling towards the surface of the earth, before they suddenly slowed down. The pilots lowering the landing gear in desperation just before passing out. Her taking the controls and landing safely, with Luther and Benji’s assistance.

              Ethan’s smile grew wider and wider with each detail. He was proud of not only his team being able to work together without him and assist Ilsa wherever possible, but also her ability to remain calm and bring the plane back down to earth. True, she was trained to maintain focus on a mission, but this was a rather unexpected one and she knew guns and assassination, not flying. She was trained in theory, nothing more.  

              “Good girl,” he whispered, grunting again to bring his head forward a bit.

              Ilsa knew what he was trying to do and tilted her head forward, so her forehead could be met by Ethan’s lips. The sensation combined with good girl set even more tingles going. Ethan was proving every second that he could push her buttons. For a man capable of such violence and precision when necessary, he truly was caring, soft and gentle when it came to women.           

              “You did great, really,” Ethan emphasised with another kiss on the forehead.

              “Welcome to Ireland, I suppose,” Ilsa shrugged with a beam. She was melting to the point of feeling bubbly inside.

              “So, what have you found out?” Ethan asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up more in his bed.

              Ilsa was flattered that he instantly assumed she wouldn’t be sitting around doing nothing while stranded in Ireland. She explained Luther and Benji taking the Black Boxes from the rear access door and Ethan approved of the move. He already anticipated Sloane and the CIA getting involved so soon after the near-disaster in Kashmir and the recent death of IMF Secretary Hunley. Ethan still saw the man’s dying eyes and his final breath whispering “go,” to him in the darkness whenever he blinked.

              “So the pilots erased the tape,” Ethan nodded. “A coverup.”

              Ilsa nodded, feeling the rush of explaining her findings to someone she trusted and was sharing her intrigue. She took out her phone and showed him the picture of the mangled wing. “A missing slat, correct? I’m not sure if you know more about aviation than I do?”

              “My cousin was in the Air Force, started with F-14s in the 80s. Refused demotion god knows how many times because it would take him away from being a pilot,” Ethan swiftly answered.

              He then fell silent as he took Ilsa’s phone and she could see his thumb and index finger parting ways to use the zoom feature. He narrowed his gaze.

              “That’s a hung slat,” he concluded, handing the phone back to her. He then placed his hands on the back of his head, elbows back. “Or was, rather,” he then corrected.

              “H…Hung?” Ilsa asked, unable to fight the temptation to glance further down his body ever so briefly, before swiftly snapping her gaze back at him. She raised her eyebrows with curiosity.

              “So, the slats slide out over the front of the wing to generate more lift. Simply extending the surface area,” Ethan explained. “Particularly on older aircraft like the 727, they can droop at a bit of a sharper angle than normal. Sometimes components like actuators can develop some fatigue that goes undetected. The slat just hangs a bit lower. It’s considered a nuisance, rather than dangerous.”

              “You could tell just by looking at the picture?”

              He nodded. “The slat was torn away by aerodynamic loads from the dive but it wasn’t a clean tear. I could tell from the pieces that remained.”

              “You’re particularly knowledgeable about this,” she commented.

              “My cousin was air force, as was my uncle. But the latter spent much of his adult life piloting 727s between the two coasts. Passengers, then cargo and he preferred the latter since it wasn’t one to complain. We were quite close before cancer took him on the tail end of his 60s and he explained pretty much everything he knew.”

              “You never considered that career? Piloting?”

              “Life would’ve been quite different, I guess,” Ethan shrugged.

              Too right it would, Ilsa thought. She then copped that she never would’ve met him if he chose such a conventional job and that she really wasn’t in a position to complain about his life choices. Well, there was one? Him being single! However, it remained entirely up to her to fire her shot.

              She had to ask.

              Here goes…

              “Ethan?”

              He was caught gazing up at the ceiling in contemplation while rubbing Ilsa’s upper back and he glanced at her, looking deep into her eyes. “Yes?” he asked, with a comforting smirk.

              She took a breath.

              Get on with it, woman!

              “Why would a 727 pilot extend flaps and slats in midair?” she exhaled. She decided to go along with the excuse that she would spill her guts to Ethan relentlessly once they find out why they were nearly killed. If there was some sort of threat remaining against them, then she couldn’t relax and open up to Ethan that crucial bit more. Yes, I’ll go with that excuse! Accomplish the mission first!

 

“The flaps, not the slats,” Ethan then replied and it sent a shiver down Ilsa’s spine. She was really getting somewhere with her investigation and it was giving her a buzz within her cranium as well as a fuzzy feeling down below. Or maybe that was just Ethan himself. She was so tempted to slide her hand under his gown and give him a ‘welcome back’ treat. However, her intrigue was too powerful in that moment.

              “I’m listening,” she said, pulling the armchair in closer so she could sit down. She then leaned forward and rested her chin on folded arms on the edge of the bed while gazing up at Ethan.

              “One of the things my uncle shared with me about his experiences as a pilot was an unsanctioned procedure from the 70s among 727 pilots. Apparently it was meant to save time and fuel but it remained unapproved, yet was done regardless in secret. Like one of those company policies that HR doesn’t really keep an eye on, so employees do it anyway if it saves them time and work to the point of it becoming pure habit? Everyone knew about it but no one wanted to admit to it.”

              “I’m familiar with the type,” Ilsa interjected.

              “Well, while in cruise flight, you could in theory extend the flaps to the first increment of 2 degrees. But not the slats.”

              “I thought that they can only be extended in tandem? There’s only one lever for them after all on the console?” Ilsa said. She was feeling frustrated at herself for interrupting ever so often but she couldn’t help it. The sooner she could wrap up this case, the quicker she could dig deeper for a bigger set of balls to finally open up to Ethan.

              “Have you ever seen the rear wall of a cockpit?” Ethan then asked, running two fingertips through her hair. “The many black buttons with letters and numbers? It’s like an entire bank just sitting there?”

              Ilsa nodded.

              “Those are the circuit-breakers. They’re fuses essentially. If a system becomes overloaded and seizes, the breaker pops automatically. Protruding outwards a bit further by a few millimetres. It cuts the circuit and allows the component to cool down again. After a few minutes, the pilot can reset it by pushing it back in as a form of troubleshooting. Are you with me so far?”

              She nodded again.

              “Breakers can also be pulled,” he continued. “In this case, if you pull the P40 circuit-breaker, you cut the power to the slats. Then, if you pull the handle to the 2 degree setting? The flaps will still extend back behind the wing, but the slats would remain in place. The rear surface is extended, but the front end remains neutral and therefore no disruption to the oncoming air and resulting vibration.”

              “P40 circuit-breaker,” Ilsa repeated.

              Ethan nodded.

              “And you believe this is what happened up there?”

              “It would explain the missing slat in that picture you took. But what it doesn’t explain is why the vibrations and rollover happened in the first place. What I just explained to you was to increase the efficiency of the cruise. It is not intended to cause a near-crash, otherwise pilots would most certainly not have done it.”

              “Luther already looked up the flight crew and they all come from multiple generations of pilots between them. It would explain how they inherited this particular habit nearly 50 years later. But you make a good point.”

              “If there’s a missing slat,” Ethan thought aloud. “Then it must’ve extended along with the others to cause a disruption with the airflow. It would’ve caused the vibration we experienced.”

              Ilsa stayed silent for a few seconds, looking away at a random spot on the wall to gather her thoughts about the timeline. “Okay, let’s say the pilots did what you just explained to me. The unsanctioned manoeuvre. They pull the breaker, pull the flaps back to 2 degrees and sit there fat, dumb and happy. Then, for whatever reason, the slats suddenly extend and trigger the upset. The pilots would’ve felt the same vibration that we did. There’s no way they didn’t. They were conscious enough all the way up to the middle of the dive where they extended the landing gear. I saw the lever down and the gear itself down and locked by the time I got there. With me?”

              Ethan nodded.

              If only he could be fully with me…

              “Surely they could’ve just brought the flaps and slats lever back to neutral? The second they felt the vibrations and realised things were going wrong? It shouldn’t take them that long to retract?”

              “No, definitely not from such a small setting to begin with,” Ethan agreed. “Unless one of them was a hung slat?”

              Ilsa gave him an alarmed look.

              “Like I said, a hung slat droops down a touch more than it should. Harmless in an everyday setting when you’re operating it at a lower speed and close to the ground. However, if it were to be suddenly extended and exposed to the elements at eight tenths the speed of sound? In the thinner atmosphere? Retracting it isn’t going to be so easy.”

              “Like if you’re driving at high speed down a motorway and something is being pulled from an open window in your car? Unless you slow down you’re going to find it really hard to pull it back in,” Ilsa said.

              Ethan nodded. “It’s highway, by the way.”

              “Don’t get into this debate with me right now,” Ilsa muttered, shaking her head and Ethan chuckled. She couldn’t help but giggle back. After everything he’d been through, Ethan deserved all the humour and enjoyment in the world.

              “So, the pilots are caught off-guard by the slats extending over the front edges of the wings. They immediately try to retract the slats and flaps and bring the lever back to neutral. Our rogue slat, however, is being pushed back and downwards by the forces of the oncoming air and won’t budge,” Ethan recapped.

              “The wings are asymmetrical as a result,” Ilsa continues. “The rogue slat is on the starboard side, which was the direction in which we started rolling. An imbalance. The left wing is clean and generating lift as it should, the right wing is hampered by the stubborn slat, which is creating more drag. Like it’s being caught on a branch and falling as a result.”

              “The plane becomes unflyable. Had that slat not torn away from the stresses of the dive, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

              Ilsa distinctly remembered falling out of the bathroom during the spiral dive. Fighting the sensation of greying out. Fighting her own body. The sudden slowing down, accompanied by the tearing sound coming from outside. The slat ripped away, unable to cope with the intensifying forces as well as the air becoming thicker in general due to the lower altitude and denser atmosphere. The gear was lowered around the same time and both events, one more intentional than the other, led to the plane becoming just stable enough for Ilsa to take action. She jumped at the chance and it paid off.

              “Okay, so we know that the pilots performed that unofficial procedure. It was technically illegal under aviation law but it was done nonetheless because it worked. It was questionable, but effective,” Ethan continued.

              “Are you going somewhere with this?”

              “It wouldn’t have been so commonly used if it didn’t work or go against the crew’s intentions. Those slats extended unintentionally for some reason or another, the only question is why.”

              Ilsa looked away again. If Ethan couldn’t put his finger on it, then she figured she sure as hell couldn’t. It was even more frustrating hitting a roadblock when exceptionally close to one’s destination. It was like salt on the wound.

              Then she sensed Ethan turning his head towards her. He wanted to say something, maybe ask her something. She instantly turned to look back at him. Yes? Could this be it? Maybe I don’t have to fire the shot at all! Maybe he’s launching a pre-emptive strike!

              A knock on the door.

              They snapped their gazes in unison in its direction as it creaked open.

              “I hope this isn’t a bad moment,” Erika Sloane said, as more of a statement rather than a question.

Chapter 10: And The Lover Whispers Back

Summary:

“So you can read me now, then?” she asked.
“You may have been able to fool me in the beginning,” Ethan said, turning over to face her and wincing in the process. “Can’t fool me now.”
“You shouldn’t do that, you need to rest properly. No unnecessary strain!” Ilsa blurted in a brief panic, using her free hand to place it on Ethan’s shoulder. It was right next to his heart.
“You make it more than necessary.”
Ilsa felt herself deflate slightly but not from disappointment. A tear was streaming down her cheek. She shook her head as she gazed into Ethan’s breathtaking eyes. They were windows into a future she never thought she’d have. Even way back in the days at the orphanage, when her mind could be considered to be more innocent.
“I’ve made life so difficult for you, since the moment we met,” she whimpered.
“When we first met, you saved my life.”

#

A second confrontation with CIA Director Sloane leads to Ethan and Ilsa having more than one serious conversation from his hospital bed. Feeling herself backed into a corner, Ilsa must come up with a way to prove her doubter wrong and put the matter to bed once and for all.

“You must possess the most terrible luck in the world, Mr Hunt,” Sloane smiled, her hands shoved deep into her dark overcoat’s pockets.

Was there some sort of weapon hidden in there? A knife for throwing, some sort of grenade for throwing? Poison gas? Or something as simple and effective as a pistol? Was it suppressed? Either way, how could she explain committing such an act in a country with gun laws as strict as Ireland? Ilsa hadn’t been here very long but she figured they had similar restrictions as in the UK. She remained in the seat and glared in the direction of her opponent, gearing herself up for every possible scenario. She gripped the armrests in order to give herself leverage. Physical leverage, that was, in the event she suddenly had to push herself up in her love’s direction. She wouldn’t have hesitated to take a bullet for Ethan.  

              Ethan smiled politely back but Ilsa’s expression could not have been any more different. It was a look of pure and undiluted venom. She stood straight away and made a step or two towards Erika. Was it going to be a Mexican standoff? A case of who fired first? Ilsa had no weapons, but she had her fists. She had no idea how Erika got to where she was in the CIA ranks, but whether she had combat experience or not? Those who switch to desk work tend to forget things.

              “Thank you for the newspaper,” Ethan said.

              “Oh don’t mention it!” Erika waved it off.

              Ilsa froze in position in the middle of the room, close to the foot of Ethan’s bed. She snapped her gaze over her shoulder and in his direction, with widened eyes and then back at Erika. It felt like an ambush. The barriers of two universes closing on her. She was feeling claustrophobic, trapped. There was a weight on her chest, like a bowling ball. She didn’t know at which front she should be looking.

              “She was here the whole time and you said nothing?” Ilsa then hissed at Ethan. Something she never thought she’d do to him. It was completely unexpected. Harsh, brutal. She was as caught off-guard as Ethan was as soon as the words and their tone departed from her mouth.

He frowned and gave her a confused look.

              “What’s the big deal, Ilsa? We’re all friends now. We smoked out a mole for her and she was giving us a free ride home,” Ethan said quietly, with some disappointment in his voice. The mood was already disrupted by Erika, but now Ilsa had completely killed it.

              “We’re all friends, now…” Ilsa repeated with a sarcastic nod. “Sure!”

              She then turned on her heels and went straight for Erika but not in an aggressive way. More of an assertive move. She brushed past her and said to Erika that she wanted a word while she was already halfway out the door. She wasn’t asking. Sloane read the mood straight away and wasn’t going to resist. She had already visited Ethan, clearly. She was simply using him as bait to get to Ilsa. That had to be the reason!

              Avoiding any looks from curious nurses, the two women found a janitor’s closet and took refuge.

              “I know you have one of my men’s guns. He reported it missing while being discharged from this very hospital. Reported to me, of course, rather than in any official capacity. He wouldn’t tell it to the hospital staff. Handguns are strictly regulated here in Ireland. Even their cops don’t carry them, and they have the gall to call them Guards when I’d wager they couldn’t guard a hotdog stand! He reported it to me and it didn’t take long to put two and two together.”

              “You can put two and two together, congratulations…” Ilsa muttered, folding her arms and looking away at nothing.

              “Enough of the childish barbs, okay, hun?” Sloane scoffed. “I’m not going to ask you to give me the gun now. Not when a nurse could walk by any moment. As far as any onlookers are concerned, we’re both worried and bereaved friends of a patient, wanting to tend to his wellbeing.”

              “One of us is genuinely concerned for real, so it could work as a disguise.”

              “You instantly assume that I’m out to get him? Have you forgotten already that I said if I wanted to kill you, none of you would be breathing? I prefer to deal with threats – or what I deem as threats – as far away from home soil as possible. Easier to clean up. Don’t you think I would’ve put something in his plastic water cup or laced the newspaper with some sort of substance to get under his skin and into his bloodstream?”

              “False senses of security exist for a reason. Like the one you pulled on me just there? Waiting until I was in the room and stupid enough to get comfortable with someone I trust unconditionally before pouncing? How much of what Ethan and I discussed did you pick up?”

              “Believe it or not, I’d gone to the ladies. So, I’m a bit slow on the uptake. You obviously enjoy feeling like you’re above everyone else, so may as well enlighten me,” Sloane retorted, folding her arms and tilting her head with a narrowed gaze.  

              It took Ilsa thirty seconds to enlighten Sloane and her reaction wasn’t much of a surprise, but it was still disappointing and frustrating nonetheless. It was like getting the same gift from the same relative every year. All one could do was just put on a brave face and hide the pain until later when they were alone.

              “What kind of idiots do you think I have flying for me? For the agency!” she scoffed, before looking away and shaking her head. Her brain having already attempted to compute the information it was being fed and just outright refusing to process it. She began pinching the bridge of her nose and gave a classic I’m wasting my fucking time sigh with closed eyes.

              “Like you said yourself, Miss Sloane, you’re on a budget. Are you not?” Ilsa shrugged.

              “There’s a difference between cutting costs and cutting IQ points.”

              “In my experience, they tend to go hand in hand.”

              “Enough,” Sloane said, exasperatedly. “You actually want me to believe that three former military men, all of whom had their daddies and their daddies before them flying would do something this dangerous? Putting their own lives and the lives of the people aboard their aircraft in danger willingly? To shave off some time and fuel?”

              “Sloane, all due respect…” Ilsa inhaled.

              “Oh so we’re going to start with some of the respect then, are we?” Sloane sarcastically gasped.

              “Do you drive in your spare time? Drive to and from work?”

              “What of it?”

              “Do you indicate – or signal - each and every single time? Check your mirrors before you signal each and every single time? Indicate before a roundabout or traffic circle or whatever you call it on that side of the pond? Even giving another driver a gesture with the hand to go ahead in front of you from a junction is an instant fail, in the eyes of driving examiners and instructors, and yet people still do it in everyday life.”

              “Are you approaching something even remotely resembling a point?”

              “People develop habits. It’s human nature. We always want some way to speed things up a bit. Some are more daring than others, but human beings cannot be expected to adhere to every single rule in the book. It’s like pleasing everyone. You can’t do it. These pilots were made aware of a way of speeding up the flight ever so slightly. But? Ever so slightly is an undefined measurement. Some interpret it differently. You and me talking here in a janitor’s closet for a few minutes? Not that much. But when you’re at high altitude for several hours of the day, bored out of your skull? Nothing much to keep you occupied? If you have the chance of shaving even a few minutes off it? You’re going to do it.”

              “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

              “You’re the Director of the CIA, are you not? Do you prefer the arrogant or the shy?”

              “You really want to know what I prefer?” Sloane smirked.

              “Enlighten me,” Ilsa mockingly muttered.

              “Reports from experts. Not speculation from a wannabe sleuth. You were trained and ordered to serve a specific purpose; kill for your government. Not get in everyone’s way just because something didn’t go your own way. You experienced a mid-air upset caused by some unfortunate turbulence. Mother Nature can be a proper bitch sometimes and it delayed your arrival into our country by a day or two. Big deal.”

              Ilsa widened her eyes, her brows contorted from disbelief. She made a silent gesture in the direction of Ethan’s room.

              “An unfortunate casualty,” Sloane nodded. “But as we both saw just there, he’s awake and already making a recovery. Quite astounding really, considering everything he’s been through within the last week alone and for a man of his age. His brain and body should really be donated to science when he passes.”

              “When?!” Ilsa snapped. She couldn’t be certain if Erika really used an inflection with the word or if she imagined it. When. She was far from comfortable with the usage either way.

              Sloane made a face at her reaction. She raised a hand. “Everyone dies eventually, Miss Faust. No matter how hard we strive, we’re all going to meet our maker some way or another.”

              “Some faster than others,” Ilsa said with an eerie calmness to her voice.

              Sloane narrowed her eyes and then took a step forward, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “Let’s certainly hope nothing goes wrong during our flight back to Andrews, tomorrow morning. I will have my men pick all of you up from your hotel at 7am sharp. Be ready, all three of you. I will have a separate detail collect Mr Hunt from right here so you don’t need to worry about him. All of us on one plane, another 727 and a fresh crew, nice and simple. I’m sure the Irish would rather see the backs of us after the mess that’s been made.”

              “Ethan? Is he in any condition to fly?” Ilsa asked.

              “Didn’t stop us in Kashmir, did it?” Sloane shrugged, letting herself out of the closet.

 

Ethan could read the rage on Ilsa’s face when she re-entered his room and slammed the door behind her. She knew they were alone this time round and it was a relief on its own, but it didn’t stop her from doing laps at the foot of his bed, her arms folded. She felt like her nails were going to dig all the way into the bones of her forearms. Her teeth clenching to the point of shattering.

              “Hey, everything alright? You seemed pretty tense ever since you came into my room, the first time I mean?”

              “Listen!” Ilsa snapped again, rubbing her eyes. “I’m sorry I lost my cool with you earlier, okay?”

              “You’re distrustful of Sloane,” Ethan said, folding his arms and leaning forward slightly. “Stating the obvious I know, but the Russians have a saying. Trust, but verify.”

              “I’m well aware of the saying. I just don’t get why you’re so trusting of her. You’ve forgotten all the misery she caused you ever since that plutonium was stolen.”

              Ethan looked away and shrugged. “I admit she didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat but she had her reasons. I’d be lying if I said half of the IMF’s success wasn’t down to dumb luck? She had a job to do and we didn’t exactly have the best track record. We get the job done, sure, but our methods are far from orthodox. Not to mention that we lost that plutonium in the first place in Berlin.”

              “Because the CIA and MI6 do everything by the book,” Ilsa sniffed.

              “Fair point,” Ethan conceded, before giving Ilsa another look and jerking his head in the direction of the armchair.

              Ilsa quietly stepped over, pulled the armchair over to be close to him and smirked at the sight of Ethan offering his hand. She firmly took it and told Ethan about the conversation with Sloane. Her refusal to believe their theory and her adamance about it being turbulence.

              “Turbulence has never brought down a plane,” Ilsa added.

              Ethan gave her an awkward look. “Not entirely true. Ever heard of BOAC?”

              “British Overseas Airways Corporation. Predecessor to British Airways,” Ilsa nodded.

              “In 1966, one of their airliners – a Boeing 707, to be more precise – went down near Mount Fuji. It encountered clear-air turbulence brought on by a wave-like phenomenon that happens near mountains sometimes. It was so powerful that it tore the aircraft to shreds. Killed all 124 people aboard.”

              “That was more than fifty years ago,” Ilsa said. “Safety has come a long way in the ensuing decades.”

              “As has the intensity of weather events,” Ethan added. “And the Boeing 727 isn’t that much younger than the 707. It’s from an older generation. Sure, it can be more thrilling for those who like the classics but they’re also more vulnerable to more modern threats.”

              “Whose side are you on exactly?”

              “Ours, and I hate to break it to you but as far as I’m concerned, that includes Sloane. She wants to wait for the report of the official investigators? That’s pretty hard to argue with. If she wanted us dead? We never would’ve left Kashmir.”

              “She already said that,” Ilsa huffed, rolling her eyes before looking down and inspecting the nails on her free hand. “Besides, she and the CIA weren’t the only potential threats in my mind.”

              “Our old friend, Solomon Lane, made a threat to you right before we landed for the exchange?”

              Ilsa snapped her gaze back up at him.

              “How did you…?”

              “Did you honestly expect me to believe there was nothing on your mind when you sat back down with me on the previous leg. Leaning your head on my shoulder, come on,” Ethan chuckled. “I saw you pausing in the aisle and listening to whatever it was that he was spewing. And I read your face slowly change. It had gone from one of typical jetlag and exhaustion to pure fear.”

Ethan paused, as a wave of relief washed over Ilsa’s face.

“The point is? Even if Lane somehow managed to engineer some sort of mid-air event that almost got us killed? The almost part is the key here. He failed and now he’s spending the rest of his life in British prison. However long your former paymasters decide to keep him alive. For all we know? They’re deciding right now to decommission him, permanently. Either way, it doesn’t matter to us anymore.”

              “Us?” Ilsa beamed, Ethan’s words never failing to give her hope and comfort when she needed them.

              “Us,” Ethan repeated with an ever-assuring nod and Ilsa could feel him tightening his squeeze on her hand, but in a warm way. She looked down to make sure her sense of touch wasn’t fucking with her. It wasn’t. Ethan was trying to gently pull her closer to him and she indulged him.

              “So you can read me now, then?” she asked.

              “You may have been able to fool me in the beginning,” Ethan said, turning over to face her and wincing in the process. “Can’t fool me now.”

              “You shouldn’t do that, you need to rest properly. No unnecessary strain!” Ilsa blurted in a brief panic, using her free hand to place it on Ethan’s shoulder. It was right next to his heart.

              “You make it more than necessary.”

              Ilsa felt herself deflate slightly but not from disappointment. A tear was streaming down her cheek. She shook her head as she gazed into Ethan’s breathtaking eyes. They were windows into a future she never thought she’d have. Even way back in the days at the orphanage, when her mind could be considered to be more innocent.

              “I’ve made life so difficult for you, since the moment we met,” she whimpered.

              “When we first met, you saved my life.”

              “Only to then make it more difficult,” Ilsa nervously sniffled.

              “You saved me in more than one way,” Ethan continued. “I figured I was destined to be alone. You’ve recently met someone I thought I could have a life with. I was proven to be wrong. Julia is a good person but it just wasn’t to be. After that, I decided that was it. No more attempts of romantic happiness. Focus on the job. I did time in a Russian prison for the job after all. I maintained focus as best as I could, but it was still gnawing at me nonetheless. Like a flesh-eating virus you see in one of those apocalypse movies. Never ends. Accepting a life alone doesn’t mean you’re happy about it.”

              Ethan paused and Ilsa tightened her grip on his hand. Giving tiny strokes with the fingers of her other hand on his shoulder. He looked away and then back at her. Her eyes widened when she saw a tear. Ethan Hunt….shedding a tear.

              “Then I met you,” he whispered. “While chained to that pipe? I thought you were as beautiful as I do now, right here in this moment.”

              She melted, biting her lower lip to keep her emotions at bay. Or as best as she could since the ability to keep them completely suppressed was becoming closer to impossible than she could ever have imagined.

              “I thought nah, there’s no way she would ever want to be with me. Not just because of the dangerous nature of our job but you were just too good for me.”

              “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ilsa suddenly snorted with a grin, before glancing away and shaking her head and letting out a sudden burst of cackling.

              “What?” Ethan asked with a face of confusion that only made her laugh more.

              Ilsa let go of his hand and wiped the tear from his eye. She kept her face close to him while caressing his cheek. “Didn’t you ever wonder why you were topless when chained to the pipe? You had a jacket and top on when you were captured in that record shop? Yet when you woke up? Completely topless. Not even a shirt.”  

              He made a face. “That was your idea?!”

              She nodded and continued to giggle, especially when seeing Ethan rolling his eyes. As if he’d been exposed to a conspiracy theory and it all suddenly made more sense than anything else he ever believed all his life.

              “And I certainly had no complaints about what I saw,” she winked.

              “Colour me flattered, I guess?” he sighed.

              Ilsa took a breath, the humorous moment having run its course. She then moved her hand from his shoulder to the area of his chest covering his heart. Ethan glanced down and then back at her. She was still looking at her hand and his heart. She then turned back towards his eyes.

              “You said you were accepting of a lifetime of loneliness,” Ilsa whispered, before nodding at his heart. “I don’t suppose there’s room for me in there?”

              “Like I said,” Ethan whispered back. “…and then I met you.”

              Ilsa’s heart pounded harder than she could ever remember as their distance closed. Both physically and emotionally. They were on the same wavelength. Radios tuned to the same frequency. It had been like that the entire time but only now were they exchanging the right words. The correct callsigns. The correct beacon at the foot of the runway now in range and broadcasting as loud as physically possible.

              Their lips met.

Ethan’s hand was gently stroking her temple and Ilsa was struggling to find the right surface of his head to grasp. She wasn’t sure if it was his scalp or if she was about to accidentally hit his ear. She never felt so awkward and yet so relieved simultaneously in her life. Ethan Hunt truly was a number of firsts for her.

              She lost all track of sense and time. The world didn’t matter. The case didn’t matter. The cause of the upset, the reasoning behind her choosing the life she chose. None of it. She had her path and it led her right here, to this moment. It was all worth it.

              I have my man.

              “Is this…r…really happening?” she stammered, their lips separated once again but they could still taste each other’s breath.

              “Yes.”

              “I’m not dreaming?”

              “If you are, please don’t wake up,” Ethan said before leaning in and it resumed.

Ilsa decided she was fed up with the chair and climbed into the bed beside Ethan. She couldn’t feel any cables beneath her hip and was willing to assume she wasn’t causing him any issues. The kissing had come to a brief hiatus, just so the cuddling could commence. Ethan returned to lying on his back while Ilsa rested her head on his shoulder and her arm draped across his chest. She could feel it rising and falling gently, while she ran her fingers across his heart to feel the regular thumping. So long as it continued to thump, she continued to survive.

“If I’m not mistaken, you said that you gave up after Julia, correct?” Ilsa randomly asked after a few minutes of silence and the room’s analogue clock ticking nearby.

“Correct.”

“So, you haven’t had a woman since then. Not just romantically, but physically,” Ilsa continued, craning her neck to look up at him. She placed her hand on the opposite side of his face, to get him to look at her.

He shook his head.

“Thought so,” she casually replied.

Then another thought hit her. The sudden wave of peace crashing over her had left unanswered questions in its wake. Her thoughts on the flight were coming back. Not just the case itself but everything relating to it. The pilots, Ethan’s situation, Sloane…her interruption.

“Was this what you were going to say to me?” she asked. “Before Sloane walked in.”

“That I haven’t been with a woman for ten years?”

“No, right before she walked in, we were discussing the mid-air incident,” Ilsa thought aloud, propping herself up on an elbow but keeping her hand on his chest. “You were going to ask me something. Can you remember what it was going to be? Were you about to confess your feelings or was it something pertaining to the case? It’s a shame the pin feature doesn’t exist in human interaction.”

Ethan chose a spot on the ceiling to think and Ilsa watched intently.

“You were in the bathroom when it happened. On the plane, I mean. Right before everything went pear-shaped,” Ethan explained. “At the same time? I saw a member of the cockpit crew leave and knock on the bathroom door. Then he gave up and returned. Within a minute? We were shaking and rolling over.”

“That timeline fits what I remember, what of it?”

“I saw an empty seat on the flight deck during the time the door was opened. I also saw the heads of the two pilots sitting up front. The empty seat was that of the flight engineer’s.”

Ethan watched as Ilsa drew the same conclusion as him. Her eyes widened. That was it! It all fitted perfectly! The final piece of the puzzle was found and inserted. All that was left was to present it to the relevant eyes.

“We have to tell Sloane! She needs to know who she has working for her!” Ilsa exclaimed.

“She wasn’t believing us before, why would she now? She won’t believe anything until concrete proof is presented before her.”

Sloane’s words about preferring evidence from professional investigators returned to Ilsa’s head. Not just those particular words from the janitor’s closet, however…

…All of us on one plane…

…Another 727…

…Fresh crew…

…7am sharp…

“Then I suppose we need to show her,” Ilsa shrugged, sitting up and pulling out her phone and heading for the door as a confused Ethan called after her. As much as she ached to share her idea with him, Ilsa needed the opinion from a more neutral perspective. Someone whose judgement wasn’t clouded by romantic feelings for her.

Closing herself into the same janitor’s closet, Ilsa waited for the dial tone to come to an end and she heard the familiar voice, albeit more subdued this time.

“Ilsa?” Luther Stickell answered.

“First of all, I’m sorry for abandoning you guys. I just had to check up on Ethan!”

“Is he okay?”

“All good. Awake and talking. Sloane is sending men over to pick us all up from the hotel at 7am sharp tomorrow morning. We’re all going home on the same plane.”

“Sounds good, but why are you sounding like as if you have something to ask me?”

“Sharp as ever,” Ilsa sighed before giving Luther the full lowdown. Not only of Ethan’s theory regarding the unsanctioned procedure, but why the slats extended again and very nearly lead to their deaths. She added that Sloane refused to believe them still. She spoke matter-of-factly and without the slightest slip in her voice. She was presenting an analytical genius like Luther with her findings and a proposal at the very end.

“Ilsa, you do this? And you’ll not only risk us ending up in prison for attempted aircraft piracy post-9/11, but you’ll also risk getting us killed!”

“Either way? Sloane will look like a proper idiot,” Ilsa concluded. “So, Luther, are you down?”

There was a pause which lasted a fraction of a second longer than Ilsa would’ve liked. But a pause was better than an outright refusal, she figured.

“Does the pope shit in the woods?” Luther playfully snorted. “Just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We go to hell? I get to say ‘I told you so’ for all eternity.”

“Deal.”

“And another thing!”

“I’m listening?”

“At least wait until we’re near Newfoundland…”

Chapter 11: Newfoundland

Summary:

Luther then leaned forward, gazing at the floor.
“We’re fifty miles from the coast,” he quietly said.
“How could you possibly know that? There’s no internet connection up here!” Ilsa gasped, impressed as well as astonished.
“Dead Reckoning,” Luther shrugged.
“Please, don’t use that word…” she hissed.
“Reckoning?” he muttered, looking up at her.
“Are you still in or not?”
“May as well, it’s not like our lives are at stake,” he sarcastically replied.

*
39,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean and with the IMF as well as Sloane aboard the same aircraft, Ilsa Faust puts her plan into motion.

She made sure the safety was engaged on the Beretta. It was a great weapon, even if she only fired it once. It was never standard issue for MI6 operatives, which she felt was a shame. It was accurate and reliable enough for her to shoot open the cockpit door of an airliner in flight, without causing any damage to the fuselage or critical components.

              Not to mention carrying a generous load.

              She looked at Ethan as she passed over the weapon, her hand on the barrel and Sloane’s man took it back. A tall stocky guy with a fresh fade cut and trimmed beard. Biceps the size of tree trunks and tattoos in a foreign language Ilsa had never seen before, in spite of her experience and travel. A look of resentment in his face for having been without it for barely two days, but he gave her a nod of gratitude at the same time, having gotten his precious sidearm back. She’d saved everyone’s life. Credit where credit is due.

              “You okay?” Ilsa asked, her arm tightening around Ethan’s like a hook.

Ethan just beamed and nodded. He was more than happy to be out of hospital and finally be on the way back to the States but his body wasn’t particularly happy about it. He was leaning to one side and Ilsa could tell from his face that he was clenching his teeth and grimacing in agony. He had to put on a brave show, for her and for everyone.

That’s how he felt anyway. However, he didn’t have to hide anything from her. Ilsa was hoping that it’d stopped once they’d finally fessed up to each other. Rome wasn’t built in a day, she then figured and Ethan looked around to make sure Luther and Benji were right behind them. They nodded back to give him assurance as Ilsa helped him up the railing of the airstairs.

Ethan hobbled before pausing and jerking his head in the direction of the wing. Ilsa instinctively took out her phone and snapped a shot of the leading edge of the wing. It was clean. No sign of sagging slats.  

“The starboard wing is also fine, I observed it during the escort over here,” Ethan added, talking more quietly and looking around constantly to make sure none of Sloane’s men or the woman herself were in easy earshot. “Too late to get a picture, I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay. I trust you,” Ilsa beamed. “No hung slats.”

“They’re not hung anyway.”  

Ilsa gave him a wide-eyed look and they giggled silently among themselves, trying their best not to be too loud. Not only did they have Luther and Benji right behind them, but Sloane and her men in front. She was rather insistent on being the first to board. A power move of sorts? Ilsa didn’t really care. She just wanted to be in the air.

She’d agreed with Luther to wait until they were near Newfoundland. At least they’d have Gander or St John’s available for an emergency landing. Ilsa didn’t mind stepping in if needed. She’d landed a stricken 727 before, no issues with attempting it again. Two days on from that harrowing night and Ilsa had to admit to herself that she got a rush from it as well. Being the hero and reaping the glory. Receiving looks of gratitude from highly-trained and experienced men for saving their arses - when they were all but useless during the crisis - was really getting Ilsa’s juices flowing.

None more so than one particular man. The man with whom she would not only be sharing her seat near the back of the aircraft, but also her life. She didn’t have much to offer him, other than her body and her heart. She hoped it would be good enough for Ethan.

He winced as she helped him into the window seat. While an aisle seat would be handier for a bathroom visit, Ilsa didn’t want to risk him losing balance in his condition and falling into the aisle. He was experienced and battle-hardened, but he was in a vulnerable state. Ilsa thought of that time when she resuscitated Ethan after escaping from the underwater vault in Morocco, only to then rob him. Then causing him to crash his motorbike and nearly going over a cliff barely ten minutes later. She remembered not being able to sleep that night, not knowing whether Ethan was seriously hurt or not. She had a job to do but the necessities didn’t make the sacrifices any less painful at times.

Now, she was only going to be gentle with Ethan. No stunts, no betrayal, and no prioritising the job. The job was now being Ethan’s woman. Someone he could depend on, come home to and cuddle up with. Rest his shoulder on her chest and listen to her heart beating while she stroked his hair and listened to him ramble about his day.

Well…there was still finishing this job. Carry out her plan which she’d worked out with Ethan and Luther and hope that Sloane doesn’t interfere in any way. The IMF were seated in the back while the CIA were up front, near the cockpit. It made perfect sense. Sloane still had it in her head that Ilsa and the IMF were to be kept at an arm’s length, or in this case, a cabin length.

Inconvenient, Ilsa conceded. However, as Jimmy Cliff said…the harder the battle, the sweeter the victory. If anyone was living proof that she could get it if she really wanted, it was Ethan Hunt himself.

She looked over at him as she fastened her seatbelt in the middle seat, their arms rubbing against each other. He reached for her hand and she clutched it straight away. They beamed at each other and she leaned in to rub the tip of her nose against his with gentle brushes.

“I trust you, it’s all in your hands now,” Ethan said.

“No pressure, right?” she smirked. “If you have any ideas on how to get past Sloane and her cronies? Feel free to make suggestions?”

Ethan attempted to sit up a bit more to get a better view of the heads at the opposite end of the cabin but instantly grunted and winced and Ilsa immediately pressed down on his shoulder to get him to sit back down.

“No overstraining yourself!” she scolded him. “I’ll give you the rundown on their seating positions once we’re airborne.”

She then felt pressure on her own shoulder, from the opposite side. Ilsa spun her head around and saw it was Luther. He was sitting directly behind her and was leaning forward. He had a stern look on his face. A tilt of the head to tell her he wasn’t fucking around.

“Remember…not until Newfoundland.”

“Thank you, Luther. You know what to do,” she muttered before turning her attention back to Ethan. Sloane and her men sitting further aft would’ve been far more convenient for Luther as well as her, but they had to work with what they got.

The door closed up and the tube was officially sealed. Ilsa could picture the interior of the flight deck. The three crew members discussing procedures and running through checklists. They would be starting the engines in a few minutes, she figured. First they had to get clearance from the ground frequency. The weather information, atmospheric pressure to calibrate their altimeters and the altitude to climb to after take-off.

They were a fresh crew, brought in at the last minute. Sloane was rushing the process of getting everyone home. She refused to believe the cause of the mid-air upset, so why would she share the theory with anyone on her payroll? Including the pilots themselves. They were the second choice, maybe they weren’t as competent or bright? Perhaps they weren’t as experienced. They didn’t look older than 35 when Ilsa first saw them as Sloane gathered everyone on the airport tarmac.

They weren’t in the terminal before boarding, compared to conventional airline passengers. Dublin was happy to allow them to leave in secret, just take your people and your problems back to America. The 727 which had made the harrowing landing was towed to a remote corner of the airport until it was decided what to do with it. Although, it did attract some photographers, both professional and amateur who would then get a bite to eat in the departures hall so the airport managers couldn’t complain too much.

These pilots would be eager to impress. To be accommodating. Will they get called again for the next job? It was their time to shine and Ilsa certainly wanted to take advantage. Make hay while the sun shone.

There was a rumble slowly gathering outside. The engines on the 727 were clustered together at the rear fuselage. One on either side and the third sitting on top of the ceiling and running out through the rear of the airframe. Ilsa listened to the hum as they spooled up for the journey across the Atlantic. Another few minutes and they would be pushing back to taxi out to the runway. Shannon had long lost its status as a layover hub, therefore Ilsa didn’t anticipate too many aircraft ahead of them.

She took the time to really take in the opponents further up, all occupying the front rows before the forward galley. Sloane had the same four bodyguards as the ones aboard the flight out of Kashmir. The only difference being her presence. Perhaps this incident scared her into being more hands-on during the cleanup process.

Then there was the first flight crew. Those who were piloting the original leg out of Kashmir and transiting through Europe. The ones who thought they were getting away with everything. Ilsa saw the tops of their heads turning in conversation. Smug arseholes. They can laugh all they want now, WE’LL be the ones laughing by the time we touch down at Andrews.

Ilsa certainly had her audience and she was bursting with excitement, rather than dread. She tightened her hold on Ethan’s hand as the plane jerked a bit before she could feel the subtle sensation of backwards motion. The pushback. She glanced past Ethan and out through the window as the asphalt retreated beneath them. It was time to say goodbye to Ireland for now. Maybe they could come back on some sort of a holiday? It was a popular destination for American tourists, as was the UK. Maybe Ethan had relatives here? He would’ve mentioned it if he did but Ilsa still loved to daydream. Maybe they could purchase a castle together and live out the rest of their lives away from the fun. She could be Ethan’s “Lady”.

Lord and Lady Hunt? An interesting ring to it…

She allowed these blissful thoughts to consume her as the 727 set out across the taxiway and was given advanced clearance to take off. They’d caught a quiet slot. They paused on the threshold and lined up with the centreline. Ilsa rested her head on Ethan’s shoulder and felt his head resting against her hair. She pictured the crew running through the final checklist.

Take-off clearance…landing lights…flaps and slats…?

She could’ve taken a glance out the window to see the flaps trailing back behind the wing. There was a clear view from where they were sitting but Ilsa didn’t really care at the same time. She already knew how they worked, more so than she could ever have imagined a week prior. The whole experience was educational on top of emotionally exhausting.

Now she found herself dreaming of herself and Ethan buying a small plane together. Fly wherever they felt like it. Just being…free.

The engines roared into life, pushed up only slightly to give them time to stabilise and then advanced all the way to take-off power. They rattled and shook as they thundered down the runway. Rattling and shaking. Not as bad as the other night but the kind that reminded Ilsa that it was an old aircraft they were using. Perhaps it was cheaper and kinder to the Agency’s budget, since no one else would take such a relic and just wanted to get rid of them. It didn’t really matter. Ilsa had her objective and it was just a matter of waiting, as agreed with Luther.

 

Ilsa realised she was only fooling herself into thinking she could get some shut-eye for the first three hours of the crossing. She glanced over occasionally at Ethan who’d fallen into what looked like a peaceful sleep. Oh, how she envied him! At the same time, he most certainly deserved it. So long as he was out of the danger zone of concussion. The Irish doctors had checked him over before the pickup. They still advised against travel but concussion was no longer a worry.

              She could only rest her head on his shoulder, stroke his hand and give the occasional yawn herself. It frustrated her more than anything into staying awake. The constant hum of the engines provided white noise, especially after they’d reached cruising altitude. The thrust reduced slightly, as climb power was no longer needed. Europe and Ireland long behind them. Greenland and Iceland on their starboard and only Canada and North America directly ahead of them.

              Ilsa envisioned what she and Ethan could do together once she was on US soil and debriefed. She needed somewhere to stay and was fine paying for a hotel but she had the feeling Ethan would insist against it, confession time having happened or not. She thought of the first night of lovemaking and falling asleep in each other’s arms. She wondered whose body clock dictated the earliest wakeup. If it was her, she would get up and make breakfast for both of them, maybe bring him a coffee to wake him up.

              She pictured the cuddling while awkwardly reaching for their mugs on the nightstand, watching the sun rise even higher on the other side of the blinds. Or curtains. Ilsa wasn’t sure of the layout of Ethan’s bedroom. He was a learning curve since the moment she met him. She was looking forward to finding out every aspect of his personal life. Both the dark and light sides so she could eliminate the former and intensify the latter. It almost scared her how fuzzy it made her feel inside. All of the happy thoughts. What if one of the guys up front tried to hijack the plane for instance? What use would she be if she was so sappy?

              Ilsa then saw it as ironic and hypocritical to be getting so concerned about a hijacking all of a sudden. She slowly looked over the top of her seat, half-expecting Luther to have fallen asleep and scuppered her idea as a result. However, she was pleasantly surprised to see him glaring at her. How long had he been doing that? Was he as much of a computer as those he hacked? Was that how he was so knowledgeable? Some sort of project instigated by the CIA? Ilsa could’ve done with a computer-based brain right then and there. Some sort of…entity. At least exhaustion wouldn’t have been a concern.

              Luther then leaned forward, gazing at the floor.

              “We’re fifty miles from the coast,” he quietly said.

              “How could you possibly know that? There’s no internet connection up here!” Ilsa gasped, impressed as well as astonished.

              “Dead Reckoning,” Luther shrugged.

              “Please, don’t use that word…” she hissed.

              “Reckoning?” he muttered, looking up at her.

              “Are you still in or not?”

              “May as well, it’s not like our lives are at stake,” he sarcastically replied.

              Ilsa nodded and turned back around. She took in a few deep breaths and looked over at Ethan. He was still fast sleep, her hand still intertwined in his on the armrest. He was in the loop and yet he still fell asleep. It was a silent way of saying he trusted her entirely. He never doubted her. It only exacerbated the immense pressure she was feeling to be right.

              “I promise, it’ll all be okay,” she whispered, leaning in and giving him a wet kiss on the cheek. She heard a faint giggle and wondered if she was hearing things. Or maybe he was having a sweet dream involving her. One could only imagine with a man who’d gone so long without a woman as him.

              She took one final breath.

              And stepped out into the aisle.

              She immediately turned on her heels and made her way beyond the final two rows to the rear toilet. She ignored the looks on Luther and Benji’s faces. They were finding it much harder to have any faith in her idea. On one hand, she understood since Ethan knew her the best out of all the IMF members but on the other, having less faith only added the pressure. But it was too late to back out now. Ilsa had made her move and it was just a matter of ensuring it was the correct one.

              She spent only ninety seconds in the bathroom before bursting the door open again, nearly breaking the latch in the process. She needed to make sure Sloane, the original flight crew and the mercs could hear her. She then painted a mask of frustration on her face while making her way up the aisle to the front galley. Long flights were difficult enough without malfunctioning toilets.

Bloody loo is on the fritz! Got to go when you’ve got to go, eh?!

              …There’s most certainly NOT a fire brewing in the wastebin as a result of a borrowed lighter…

              She wanted to warn Luther against his habitual relationship with Cuban cigars and that it was going to catch up with him eventually. However, it was serving a new purpose this time round. She felt less of a need to complain or lecture. Her own body wasn’t exactly a stranger to abuse. Especially her liver.

Ilsa panicked inside when there was a lack of movement from up front. She could swear there were merely dummies occupying the front few rows. What was going on? Why weren’t there any reactions? Was she not loud enough? Was she going to be met with stiff resistance as soon as she came into view at the front? The best she could do was just keep her breathing regulated the further she went. Four rows to go, then three and the final two were occupied.

              She took a glance at each.

              She couldn’t believe it.

              No resistance whatsoever. Perhaps it was just a collective rolling of the eyes. Ugh, of course their toilet is broken and they have to annoy us! Still another god knows how many hours after Gander to Andrews! Eyes remained forward, fixated on previously-elected spots on the wall. They just didn’t care.

              Sloane in particular was resting her head on her palm, deep in contemplation of her life choices and career. Was she asking if it was all worth it? The power and responsibility? What could she have been in a different life? A cop? A first responder? Other ways of making a difference in society.

              Ilsa made a quick glance back down the aisle at Luther. She shrugged.  

              Stickell shrugged back, telling Ilsa with his eyes to work it out on her own.

              She had the luxury of a hotel room. Not just that but a hotel room to herself, time to reflect on what had happened and decide what she wanted to do with her time in Ireland before heading back. She decided to spend it investigating why she was nearly killed along with everyone else.

              Sloane on the other hand, on top of the general stress of running an intelligence agency, had to deal with the unexpected. A sudden international incident while she was hoping to be back at Langley in a matter of hours. Suddenly she had to turn right back around and head back to Europe. She must’ve been at the other end of the Atlantic by then. As for her men? Traversing half of the Asian continent, then the Middle East and Europe, only to end up in a hospital ward together. No time to think, only to suffer in public. Keep on brave faces. Don’t show weakness in front of one another.

It was exhausting for humans to be robots. It was a debt that would be repaid eventually. It was unavoidable.

              Ilsa exhaled, suddenly feeling more relaxed, and calmly stepped up to the bathroom door and allowed herself in. She locked it shut behind her and glared at herself in the mirror. The smoke would be billowing out through the opening of the trash receptacle, seeping through the bottom of the rear lavatory door. It was unlikely for Sloane or any of her men to notice straight away. They had no reason to look over their shoulders. Only a #firstworldproblems complaint of a broken toilet. Flush motors break all the time. It was just something the average airline passenger had to deal with and they were aboard a chartered civilian airliner.

              What would get their attention?

              “Fire! In the rear!” she heard the familiar African-American voice boom. It was muffled due to the lavatory door as well as the general distance back to where Luther, Benji and Ethan were seated.

              She’d made sure to ask Luther if he was still aboard with the plan, and him crying wolf right before her ears was case in point. Ilsa heard the shuffling of feat. Men trained to deal with more human threats were now dealing with a seemingly natural one, threatening their lives as well as the aircraft itself.

              “What the hell?!” she could hear Sloane groaning, exasperated from inconvenience, rather than concern for her safety. She truly sounded like someone who was just done.

              Ilsa clicked the door of the lavatory open ever so slightly, peering through the newly-created slit between the door and the frame. Sloane was still in her seat, albeit turned around and peering over the several rows of seats. She was alone. Distracted by the shouts of her men grabbing for the nearest fire extinguisher. Ilsa could picture Ethan being brutally woken up. However, she was confident that he was going to take it as a positive sign that the plan was working. Even if he had painfully little to do with it. Ethan loved to be involved and Ilsa knew it. However, they all had to accept that he was in no condition for strenuous activity.

              Certain strenuous activity, that was.

              Ilsa only had to reach out her arm for her hand to fall on the handle to the cockpit door. She took a breath and depressed the handle.

              It was unlocked.

              Ilsa found it even more difficult to believe. Was she dreaming? Was she still asleep on Ethan’s shoulder and her brain was deciding to be extra cruel by envisioning this perfect scenario? It was too good to be true! Then again, a man like Ethan Hunt actually existing in such a chaotic and brutal world was too good to be true in itself. Sometimes fact was stranger than fiction, she figured.

              She let herself in and immediately took in her surroundings.

              The three faces looking back at her, initially with alarm, but then relaxing when they saw it was a pretty girl. Because pretty girls are entirely harmless. They’re someone to charm, talk down to and hopefully fool.

              Speaking of alarms, there weren’t any sounding overhead from the speakers! No swivelling of heads to identify and determine what the alarm concerned. A system seizing, an explosive device taking out the fuselage? A smoker taking things too far? Ilsa had been expecting some sort of commotion and use the news of there being a fire as her ticket into the cockpit. The fire would be swiftly put out and the flight could resume as normal. No need to inform Canadian controllers.

              Perhaps the smoke detectors weren’t working? Or disabled somehow? It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought in the context of being a passenger aboard a transatlantic flight. However, it did turn out to speed up the process of incorporating herself into the flight deck.  

              “Hello, there,” the guy in the Captain’s seat nodded with a flirtatious wave. Ilsa nodded back and at the other two guys. The flight engineer being right next to her shoulder and his instruments panel was easier to read. A wall of gauges, dials and switches. They required constant monitoring. She suddenly felt more bad for pilots in the modern era, most of the constant monitoring now being taken over by computers and automation. As if transatlantic flights or long-haul flights in general weren’t boring enough while having plenty to do.

              “Gentlemen,” Ilsa said as politely as she could, taking a few more seconds to look at the forward cockpit itself. The throttles set at cruise power, flaps and slats fully retracted up to the 0 position. The altimeters read 39,000ft over the Atlantic.

She lifted her gaze towards the windshield itself and could just about make out the greenery on the horizon, just beyond the dark bluey blanket. Newfoundland.

“Getting bored back there, sweetheart?” the Captain then asked and Ilsa bit her lower lip to hide her irritation. This would only make them easier to manipulate, her more pragmatic side figured. However, she also couldn’t help but imagine Ethan kicking the arses of anyone who dared to talk to her like that. Only one man got to call her sweetheart.

“Irritated, rather,” Ilsa then sighed, feigning frustration. “I never got your names?”

“I’m Tom,” the Captain said, before gesturing towards his co-pilot on the other side of the throttles. “That there is Richard, can call him ‘Dick’ for short and back there beside you is Harry.”

Cheeky fuckers, there’s no way those are their real names….right?

“Nice to meet you all,” she lied, shaking the thoughts out of her head and focusing on the job at hand. She glanced down into the left corner and pulled down the jump seat, reserved for visitors or additional crew members and sat herself down. “I’ll tell you something, guys. No offence to you of course? But men are fucking arseholes.”

There was a raising of eyebrows and idle chuckle. Get a load of this chick, they were all thinking.

Go on, keep living in your smug world, it’s working wonders for me.

“Do tell, maybe we can help take your mind off things?” Tom winked.

“Well,” Ilsa began, leaning forward with her elbow dug into her knee to prop up her chin with her clenched fist. “You guys might have noticed the guy I was boarding the plane with in Shannon? Well, he does not know when to shut up or try to mansplain. He was a 727 pilot himself back in the day, according to himself anyway. As was his father before him. And he would not stop yapping about the various kinks and tricks.”

She took a moment to observe the faces looking back at her. All three of them were turned away from their instruments and responsibilities. Like children listening to an old man sitting on a rocking chair with a pipe and telling his war stories. She’d been in the flight deck for less than a minute and she already had them wrapped around her finger.

Like flies on shit.

“He also has his opinions on what’s badass and what’s stupid. Then he decides to go on about what he called a ridiculous notion involving using slats and flaps at cruising altitude,” she scoffed.

There were slight but noticeable reactions from all three of them. Ilsa could barely stop herself from smirking. Things had become ridiculously easy from the moment she left her seat. She seriously wondered if Fate had gotten everything out of its system? She never considered herself to be superstitious but she was, after all, just leaving a country which was renowned for it. Had she simply…paid her dues? Now it was time for the universe to do her a solid for a change? She thought if that were the case, surely it’d have already done that by giving her Ethan Hunt.

Now wasn’t the time!

“I mean, using slats and flaps at this altitude? To shave off some time and fuel. As far as he’s concerned it was the stupidest thing he ever heard! It sounds insane if you ask me, albeit rather…how you Americans would say…bad-arse, badass! That’s the word!”

The three guys began smirking smugly.

“Anyway, I thought I’d check with some people who actually know what they’re bloody doing, you know what I mean?” she shrugged.

Tom, the Captain looked over at Dick, the First Officer. As if to ask, may as well give her a demonstration and see which one of us she ends up riding senseless in the lavatory or when we land?

Dick shrugged back.

“Watch and learn, missy!” Tom called back. “You may actually want to stand up for this to make sure you actually see everything?”

Ilsa nodded. “You guys mind if I take pictures? Just to rub his face in it?”

There was a brief look of uncertainty on Tom’s face. It was a secret procedure for a reason. Ilsa decided to counteract it by running her hand through her hair and playfully tugging on the neck of her sweater, revealing some more of her shoulder and the black strap of her bra.

“O...Of course, why not?” Tom then stammered, clearing his throat and he waited for Ilsa to have her phone at the ready. What he didn’t know was that she’d skipped the photo function and went straight for video.

Pictures can’t record audio.

“Okay, Harry, the breaker!” Tom called over to the flight engineer. Ilsa was already aiming her phone at the breaker panel on the rear wall in the starboard corner. Her microphone, however, could still pick up Tom giving the order. The 727 came from a time when the Captain was essentially God on the aircraft. He was always right. The other crew members were simply assistants. A bygone age. Some ages were better off gone.

“He said something about the P45 breaker?” Ilsa then playfully asked, imagining these three guys and the three other crew members from the first flight all receiving P45s when all of this got out. If would perhaps be the safer term here, she then conceded. She wasn’t done yet. It was all about proving it to one person and only one person.

“P40!” Harry then barked over his shoulder. It was as if Ilsa merely saying a close enough term was offensive to him. A woman even daring to talk about machinery? How dare they?!

“Oh! Sorry!” Ilsa gasped before giggling. She cringed at her excessiveness but she needed to maintain the guise. Especially when she was so close.

She made sure her lens was properly aimed as Harry reached over with his left hand and pinched the single breaker in the wall with his index finger and thumb. He then pulled it with a single click.

“Okay, you’re good, Tommy!” he called back.

“Okay then,” Tom said and looked up and over at Ilsa, jerking his head in the direction of the throttles. She turned her phone and watched as he reached for the slats and flaps handle. The slats now being disabled. He pulled it back one notch and called “Flaps 2.”

They stayed silent for a few seconds. No vibration. No rattling. The smoothness was maintained. “Neat trick, guys. Very impressive,” she said with a slight and fake orgasmic moan in her voice.

“Effortless if you ask me,” Tom shrugged. “Feel free to tell your man that before you come to your senses and leave him.”

There was a collective laughter in the cockpit.

 

Ilsa took a few moments both to give the crew a false sense of security and arrogance, as well as to reflect on what went on in the cockpit two nights ago over Ireland. Ethan confirmed that someone was out of the flight deck while she was visiting the bathroom. Knocking on the door and annoying her. It was a clue in itself and she initially missed it. It was the flight engineer of all people. The one with easy access to the circuit breakers.

              He left the cockpit for a bathroom break. Entirely normal when at cruising altitude. The seatbelt sign turned off, nothing else to do really except keep an occasional eye on the instruments and find ways of killing the boredom. A bathroom break was the easiest option.

              He’s out of the flight deck for a critical minute or two and the Captain gets a brainwave. Perhaps their engineer was more of a procedural man and unlikely to agree with an unsanctioned one. A killjoy. A buzzkill. He turns to his first officer and gives the same look Ilsa saw Tom give to Dick. Why not? If they could shave time off what was already going to be a long and arduous journey after flying all the way from Kashmir…why not? They earned themselves a shortcut!

              The Captain leaves his seat, leans forward over the empty third crewmember’s chair and pulls the P40 circuit breaker. He sits back down in his own position and pulls the handle back. Perhaps he called ‘flaps 2’ for effect or to provide the illusion for himself that he was doing the correct thing.

              Ilsa has told the flight engineer, amid her exasperation of trying to open up to Ethan and failing, that it was occupied and he was going to have to try again. He feels embarrassed at interrupting a lady in the lavatory. He returns to his seat, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. He wants to do a good deed to make up for it with his maker. He sits back down, unaware of what his two colleagues had just done behind his back. He’s out of the loop, without a clue.

              He does an instrument scan after sitting down, to make sure all was good and ensure a safe flight for his coworkers and passengers. It was the job they were trained for. He’s a professional. The gauges directly in front of him all look good. Nothing untoward. He turns to his right and looks along the breaker panel. A sea of black circles with white numbers and letters written on them to identify them and their function.

              One of them stands out, literally. It must’ve seized in order to allow its system to cool down or it just popped due to being faulty. No harm in it. It can happen, especially on an older aircraft like the 727. Not everyone is aware of the slats and flaps saga, it seems. He sees a popped breaker…

              What would any good flight engineer do?

 

Ilsa returned to the present moment and lowered her phone, but kept the camcorder function running. She thought of what Tom had said about coming to her senses and leaving Ethan. She nodded to herself. She had seen everything she needed to see. Yet another step completed but not the final step. There were two more to go.

              “Alright, gentlemen, much appreciated. Time to show a smug arsehole who the real bosses are,” Ilsa announced and used the latest collective guffaw to her advantage. Ethan was more of a real man than any of them could’ve dreamed to be combined, but she let them continue to live in their own worlds. They weren’t going to last much longer anyway.

              “Good luck!” Tom called over his shoulder as Ilsa stepped past Harry to open the cockpit door. Harry himself was turned around to his left and away from the breaker panel in order to watch her leaving. He wouldn’t get a decent view of her butt otherwise.

              “Good luck to you guys too, and I fucking mean it!” Ilsa said

…before she suddenly jerked to her left and slammed her finger onto the pulled P40 circuit breaker.

              She pushed it back in.

              And made herself scarce with the door still wide open.

              She dashed into the galley as the vibrations and rattling started. The slats on the front edges of the wings were now energised. Extending against the hurricane force winds of the oncoming air. They could barely cope with the forces. The flow was being distorted, reverberating throughout the fuselage. The plane shuddered to the right and Ilsa momentarily lost her step, using the bulkhead of the galley for grip.

              “What the fuck? What’s that bitch after doing?!” Tom roared over his shoulder.

              Her phone was still running and she struggled to turn and aim it over her shoulder towards the open door. She beamed widely at the sight of a hand reaching for the flap handle and pushing it forward to retract the slats and flaps.

              “Flaps up! Flaps up!” Tom barked out of sheer panic.

              It was the icing on the cake for Ilsa. This really was fun, she had to admit to herself. She ranked her phone as an even more powerful weapon than the Beretta she’d commandeered that first night.

              The flaps and slats may have been retracting but it still took a few vital seconds and the vibrations and rattling continued in the meantime. Ilsa turned her phone towards the front few rows. Everyone was reeling from the recent fire, whether they knew the real cause of it or not. There was a thin cloud hovering just beneath the ceiling towards the rear of the cabin. It would dissipate in a few minutes with the help of the air conditioning system. Sloane, her men and the three crew members sat there, one with an extinguisher dangling from his hand. He dropped it amid the rattling and spun his head around along with his compatriots. Sloane was the only one with a look of surprise on her face, snapping her head left and right to try and visually deduce what was happening on her own.

              Her mercs and the original crew had different looks on their faces.

              Not this shit again!

              “Gentlemen, is this what you experienced that night?!” Ilsa shouted at the mercs to compensate for the annoying and metallic groans and cries from the fuselage.

              “Yes! Just make it stop!” one of them shouted back.

              The slats and flaps were fully up.

              The vibrations and rattling stopped. Nothing left but a return to the white noise of the humming turbofan engines. Ilsa looked down at Sloane in her seat who had a look of astonishment on her face. It wasn’t too often she was proven wrong. At least in her mind from the looks of things. She gave Ilsa a look. You’re annoying…but you’re good.

              Ilsa knelt down in front of Sloane while she continued to hear swearing and various misogynistic comments from the exposed flight deck. Exposed in more way than one. She retrieved the video she’d recorded and replayed it quickly for Sloane, who paid full attention. She wanted to take the phone into her own hands, but Ilsa wasn’t that trustful of the head of the CIA just yet. She heard all the critical words, the crucial moves made by the crew. The breaker being pulled, the flap handle. Ilsa had just held her phone steady enough for the lens to pick up her wishing the crew luck sarcastically and snapping the breaker back in. Sloane could then see herself frantically looking left and right amid the vibration. It was one video. No pauses or cuts, whatsoever.

              Sloane exhaled through her nose and looked up at the ceiling. “All of this because I hired idiots?!”

              Ilsa could sense the eyes of the original crew digging in from behind her like knives.

              “All due respect, Miss Sloane. Name an employer these days who doesn’t?”

              Sloane looked at Ilsa, narrowed her gaze and then nodded. She then only said two words to the former MI6 agent.

              “Good work.”

              Ilsa nodded to say thank you, pocketed her phone and began making her way down the aisle. She didn’t care about the stomping coming from the flight deck. Tom shouting to demand where she thought she was going and that he needed to have a word. Ilsa could only smile as she continued walking in the opposite direction, hearing one of the mercs standing up to ‘advise’ Tom that it wasn’t the best course of action. All of the trained killers now knew why they were nearly killed themselves. The only reason why the flight crew were still alive was because they needed them to get them back to Washington. They had bad habits, but they were still the flight crew for a reason.

              Ilsa beamed at the nods of approval and congratulations, not to mention general relief, from Luther and Benji. The two of them then looked over at one another and nodded to confirm the mission could be considered accomplished. One more refuelling stop in Gander and they were homebound finally.

              She may not have been American but Ilsa still considered herself to be homebound. She never thought she had a physical home. No fixed abode, grew up in an orphanage and went straight into the only line of work she ever knew. Home didn’t have to be a location, however. Ilsa could safely say her home was sitting right next to her as she settled back down into her seat.

              Her home was Ethan Hunt and he reached over to touch her on the hand and she felt his lips against her cheek. She felt bad for waking him up but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he was intensely proud of her.

“That’s my woman,” he whispered amid the kiss.

It was beyond soothing. Like a drug. She could only imagine what the rest of his touch would be like. She had a feeling she’d be finding out very soon.

“I still have a hotel to book when we get to Washington,” she playfully sighed, to test the water.

“Bullshit, you’re staying at my place! Starting tonight!” Ethan chuckled.

Ilsa could only grin to the point of her jaw hurting from lack of practice. One downside of sudden and unexpected happiness. But it was one she could more than live with. She could only occupy herself with the mere thought of Ethan being inside of her and she ached for it. For him.

Chapter 12: Sweet Dreams

Summary:

She slid her hands around his waist for the second time in the last five minutes and rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him.
“My question being…are you ready?”
“For…?” he asked, feigning innocence.
“The next Grand Theft Auto…what do you think I mean?!” she giggled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
Ethan didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. He leaned forward and his lips met Ilsa’s. Warm and wet, just how they liked it. Their hands tightened their grip on each other’s bodies while they were pressed together. Any remaining distance between them firmly closed down. The lips turned to tongues and both of them fought to remember how to breathe. It wasn’t something either of them did that often.

*

With the events of the outside world behind them, Ethan and Ilsa create a world of their own...

Ethan turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. He took a step to the side and extending his arm to invite Ilsa to go ahead of him. Ladies first. She grinned, blushing slightly, as she did so. She nervously shoved her hands into the pockets of her dark overcoat. She could feel herself warming up already and knew well it had nothing to do with any kind of external source. She took a look around. Directly in front of her, beyond expansive windows, was a view of the city. The Washington Monument and the night-time sparkle of the city lights against the surface of the Potomac in the distance.

              She looked to her left and observed the rosewood-panelled kitchenette. She felt like she was attending a viewing as everything looked neat and proper. Nothing out of place from the looks of things. Every surface polished and wiped down. Utensils hanging from hooks in an ascending order of length. Taking a few steps further as she heard the door closing behind her and the rustle of Ethan removing his jacket, Ilsa observed the single leather armchair and plasma screen television, accompanied by an electric fireplace. A black fluffy rug without so much as a speck.

              “I must say, you know how to keep a clean place,” she commented, continuing to look around as Ethan stepped up and stood beside her.

              “You give me too much credit, I hire a young lady to do it for me every week. Especially when I’m away on my business trips. She and her family fled from Tbilisi ten years ago when the war broke out there and had to leave behind her university degree, life, everything. I make sure her family have enough to keep going and check in with them every now and then.”

              Ilsa shot him a look, her eyebrows raised and she felt her heart flutter even more than it ever did before.

“That’s very kind of you!” she gasped.

              “Well, I do get some free homecooked dinners in return? You know, when I actually get a chance to be here,” he shrugged.

              “This is the first time in a while?” she asked, rolling her eyes at his attempt to downplay his deeds.

              His arms were folded, he was feeling vulnerable, nervously looking in all directions and saving hers for last. He finally turned to her and nodded, his expression oozing shame. “It’s not like there’s much to look forward to. Sure, I can watch a game or movie or whatever but it’s not the same. You like to share it with someone. Luther, Benji and I sometimes do online watchalongs of an action movie or show and dissect inaccuracies for the fun of it, but it can never compare to romantic physical contact.”

              She took a step forward and took Ethan’s arms, running her fingers up along his biceps, forcing him gently to relinquish their folded stance. They held eye contact for several silent seconds and Ethan gave her an uncertain look. He had initially thought that he could tell what her eyes and body language were conveying by now, but it never hurt to double-check as far as he was concerned. Or just remain silent about it. It felt much easier. Better safe than sorry.

              “Those days are over now, Ethan,” she whispered, before running her hands down and around his hips and pulling him into an embrace, looking up into his eyes. “From this night onwards and for every day for the rest of your life….you have me to put up with!”

              Ethan grinned and they both burst out into laughter and Ilsa shook her head. “I couldn’t resist.”

              “It’s okay,” Ethan said.

They needed a sudden release of tension. They’d endured the debrief ordered by Sloane, who was now using Ilsa’s footage to overhaul the CIA’s hiring practices for pilots as well as their evaluation program. The two flight crews were going to have to look for employment outside the US. Sloane even hinted at Ilsa being presented with a medal for heroism in protecting American lives, but Faust herself couldn’t have cared less.

              She’d already won the greatest prize on earth.

              “Seriously though,” she continued and Ethan instantly reacted to the sparkle of a tear by stroking it away with his thumb, curling his other arm around her waist. Their bodies rapidly heating each other up. “From now on, you have a woman to come home to, no matter the day. Someone to cuddle up to while watching something, we only need one armchair. I could sit on your lap, my arms around you and head resting on your chest. Whichever one of us is up first can cook breakfast. How would you rate your cooking skills?”

              “Average,” he shrugged.

              “We’ll manage, I’m sure,” she scoffed. “I believe you’ve yet to show me the bedroom?”

              He nodded, and took her by the hand. Ilsa found herself dashing like an excited teenager and Ethan patted against the inside wall to find the switch. He had to let go of her hand for mere nanoseconds to reach with his more dominant hand but Ilsa already felt intensely lonely all over again. It scared her. She was getting so much warmth from him and suddenly it was gone. The physical warmth, that was. She didn’t like it. She wanted to be touching him all the time again.

              The light came on and Ilsa took her first steps into Ethan Hunt’s bedroom. An unsurprisingly well-made bed. Enough for two but used by only one. Two sets of pillows, a thinner grey blanket spread out atop the larger white duvet. The edges were all parallel and the pillows matched the duvet. There was a nightstand on either side, only one being used, naturally enough. It was on the left-hand side of the bed, the only one with a lamp.

              Ethan moved further in and even further away from Ilsa, who could feel her own heart rate rising. She watched as he flicked on the dimmed amber light and turned around to tell her she could turn off the top light. After doing so, Ilsa stepped further in herself and craned her neck to confirm that there was indeed a plasma screen TV opposite the bed. She smirked. It was the perfect setup for lazy mornings in bed just watching random things. During their afterglows, of course.

              “So, anything else you’d like to know?” Ethan asked, his hands buried and thumbs hanging on the outside of his pockets.

              “Just one thing,” Ilsa said, making a show of slipping the lace away from her overcoat and letting it fall to the floor behind her. She then began approaching Ethan and pulled the clip from the back of her head and twirling it from side to side to allow her hair to move freely in all directions. She could already tell from Ethan’s facial expressions that it was having an effect on him, and certainly not a negative one.

              She slid her hands around his waist for the second time in the last five minutes and rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him.

              “My question being…are you ready?”

              “For…?” he asked, feigning innocence.

              “The next Grand Theft Auto…what do you think I mean?!” she giggled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

              Ethan didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. He leaned forward and his lips met Ilsa’s. Warm and wet, just how they liked it. Their hands tightened their grip on each other’s bodies while they were pressed together. Any remaining distance between them firmly closed down. The lips turned to tongues and both of them fought to remember how to breathe. It wasn’t something either of them did that often.

 

Ilsa felt herself being gently nudged onto the bed, Ethan falling on his side next to her. They continued to hold each other while making out. It was just more comfortable this way. They’d done enough standing, running and jumping to last them a lifetime. Tonight was all about relaxed pleasure in bed. They’d more than earned it. They were creating their own safe haven right there on the mattress. The edges becoming borders. Anything that existed outside of it didn’t matter. Irrelevant.

              The world could go fuck itself.

              Ilsa felt herself sniffling slightly and prayed inside it was some sort of reaction to dust. A speck the part-time maid might have missed. Perfectly understandable. Everyone was human, it happened. She dreaded it being for a much deeper and personal reason and she then cursed herself when the second possibility was proven to be correct.

              “Hey,” Ethan whispered, pausing the kissing and stroking the side of her face to wipe a tear away. Then he pulled her into a tight embrace.

              “I’m sorry,” she whimpered into his chest. “I’m bloody ruining your shirt.”

              “I’ve had these clothes on for long enough, they’re going in the laundry afterwards anyway,” Ethan assured her. “I just hope they’re happy tears?”

              She frantically nodded. “Being this happy or just being happy in general is just so scary, you know? I’m euphoric but I’m just scared sick of something going wrong all of a sudden.”

              “Understandable, we’ll take as much time as you need, okay?”

              She quietly nodded and allowed herself to take comfort in Ethan’s words. She always did when on a mission with him, but this time it was far more emotional and intimate. A man she was going to bed with was assuring her everything would be okay and reminding her that the ball was always going to be in her court.

              Not just a man, THE man.

              Her man.

              And she wanted to make him feel good. To deliver well-deserved climaxes. The best. Ethan deserved nothing but the best and Ilsa wanted just that for him. She cared more for his pleasure than her own. She generally assumed that was the case in close and committed relationships. Especially loving ones.

              She reached down and groped his crotch. He gave a sharp inhale at first and they resumed kissing. Ilsa could feel his fingers running down her stomach and she had to lift a leg slightly so he could get between her thighs. She was still in her jeans and it was difficult for him to hit any more sensitive spots. But just the sensation of his fingers running against the fabric was more than enough.

              “I’m just a bit nervous is all.”

              It was Ethan who said that, not Ilsa and it got her attention. She halted the kissing and caressed the side of his face. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s making you so nervous, sweetheart? It’s okay, you can tell me,” she cooed as softly as possible.

              “You know it’s been quite a while for me and well, not just on the bedroom front but the….solo one too?”

              “Backed up like crazy? Like watermelons down there, is it?” she asked with a cheeky smirk.

              He nodded, feeling ashamed.

              “Aw!” Ilsa replied and gave him a kiss of reassurance. “If you need to come, just come, okay? I’ll take it as a compliment more than anything. It means I’m doing it right.”

              Ilsa knelt up on the bed and made sure her back was facing the pillows. Ethan sat up cross-legged and watched as she teasingly reached down and formed her arms in an X-shape to lift her sweater and shirt at the same time. She lifted them both from her body in unison and her bra was revealed. Black lace and the juicy swell of her breasts were clear to see for Ethan. His treat for the night. Or lifetime feast, being the more appropriate term.

              “Go on,” she egged him on, gesturing at her chest. “Don’t you want to claim your prize?”

              Ethan lifted his own shirt, tossing it over his shoulder into the gathering pile near the bedroom door. He then crawled on his knees up to Ilsa and slid his hands around her upper back and felt around for the strap. What was meant to be a few seconds turned into that times four. Ilsa began closing her eyes and shaking her head, biting her lower lip in desperation to not laugh.

              Ethan then let out an expletive as the mission ended in failure and she lost it. They both fell onto their sides again, this time their heads just inches from the pillows. Progress was still progress. The laughter receded after a few seconds and it was time to resume.

              She rolled him onto his back and Ethan was left to watch as she undid his belt buckle and tugged with all of her might before his own black jeans were free and added to the pile. She performed the same manoeuvre with his underwear, the elastic band of which made it much easier.

              She could finally see his cock and balls. All there for her. Ilsa could feel herself practically drooling at the sight. She gently ran her hands up his upper thighs as she leaned further forward until her fingertips reached the sack and shaft.

              “They look awfully…bloated,” she remarked, fondling them further. Ethan let out a tiny moan. “I’m going to have to take really good care of you.”

              “I should be the one taking care of you. You’re the hero from the last few days,” Ethan countered, looking down at Ilsa across his own torso. His forearm was sandwiched between his head and the pillow for additional support.

              “You’ve been the hero your whole life!” Ilsa said, running the tip of her tongue up along the shaft and up to his frenulum. “You’ve spent so long taking care of others. I’m taking care of you, end of discussion. Besides, why not give you more time to get ready for the second round and save the main event for then?”

              “Sounds….good,” Ethan exhaled, letting his head fall back as his other head was fully immersed inside Ilsa’s mouth. She kept a hand halfway up his shaft and moved it slowly and in synch with her mouth. She gauged how good she was doing from the sound of his moans. He was exceptionally sensitive from years of inactivity and she knew it. She wanted him to feel good but wasn’t prepared to swallow. Not the undoubtedly unholy load that would erupt the first time, after such dormancy.

              She felt his hands running gently through her hair and in turn, Ilsa ran one up his chest and playfully swiped a finger across a nipple. Ethan laughed and she snickered before returning to the job at hand, in a manner of speaking.

              “I want you to come for me,” she whispered, feeling the pulsations building between her lips and fingers. He was getting close and she wanted to heighten the sensation with words as well as motions. “You deserve this! Just let yourself go, darling. I’ll do all of the work. You just let yourself run wild.”

              His moans turned to pleasurable groans. He was definitely getting close. It was inevitable at this rate and Ilsa had no intention of slowing down.

              “I’m coming!” he then gasped, intense strain in his voice as he arched his head back against the pillow.

              “Good,” she menacingly purred, removing her mouth from his head but continuing to work the sensitive zones with her hand. His excessive amounts of precum from overexcitement becoming lube for her fingers.

              Ethan sucked in air through his teeth and his chest and stomach began to heave in tandem. A continuous wave running through his body, back and forth. Ilsa fondled his balls some more for added sensation.

              He exploded.

              Finally! Ilsa excitedly thought, while keeping her motion on his shaft and head going. She’d seen it in porn too often where the girl just stops when the guy starts coming, essentially destroying what was left and killing half of the pleasurable climax. She knew better and she was certainly glad. She didn’t want the first orgasm she delivered for Ethan to be a ruined one.

              Ethan’s body tensed up as she continued rocking her hand back and forth during the curve of the climax. The semen ended up all over his lower torso and Ilsa ran her hand through it, as a way of admiring her early work while he took a few minutes to catch his breath. After cleaning him up, she removed her bra with a single flick of her fingers against the mechanism and it fell away. She continued the show by falling onto her bottom and removing her own jeans and tossing them away. She then climbed on top of Ethan and began holding him as if they were about to go to sleep.

              “You okay?” he softly asked, stroking her hair and rubbing his eyes to help process what was happening.

              She quietly nodded. “I just want to stay like this for a while, if that’s okay?”

              “Of course,” Ethan assured her. “It’s just that I haven’t had the chance to get you off just yet?”

              “Plenty of time for that and besides, I’m having way too much fun right now,” Ilsa muttered, her chin bouncing against his chest.

              Ethan granted her wish and allowed her to rest on top of him for several minutes, taking in what had just happened. He was feeling a woman’s touch for the first time for as long as he could remember. He never thought it would happen again and he’d grown to accept it, to the point of feeling revirginized in a way. Now he was beginning to feel reborn.

              “You really know how to do it,” he whispered.

              “Do what?”

              “Take all the pain away,” he replied, kissing her on the head.

              Ilsa then lifted her head slightly and scanned his chest for all the various scars, old and new. She paid attention to each and every single one with equal intervals, by planting a generous amount of kisses.

              While she did this, Ethan had the perfect chance to reach up and cup one of her breasts, giving it a gentle squeeze and a soft flicking of the nipple with his fingertip. It was Ilsa’s turn to giggle and she responded by hunkering herself back down on top of him and their lips met once more.

              “My body is all yours, Ethan,” she whispered while kissing him all over his face.

              “It is?” he whispered back.

              She nodded. “Use it however you please.”

              It was a prompt he took to mean as a greenlight to end the intermission. He wanted to get to work on her ever since they stepped in through the door to his place that night. Ever since he woke up in his hospital bed in Kashmir to see her checking in on him and beaming that he was perfectly okay. Ever since he laid eyes on her in London. Ever since…

              Rolling her over, Ethan then climbed up on top of her and began kissing her on the side of her neck, combining it with gentle head-scratches.

              “Not good enough,” he whispered.

              Ilsa was caught off-guard and she gave him a look of temporary panic and confusion.

              “Your body isn’t to be used. It’s to be worshipped, treated with tenderness and respect. It’s a natural wonder of the world and I feel so honoured to be on such an expedition,” he smirked.

              Ilsa wasn’t sure whether to melt or cringe. Either way, she was certainly flattered and felt herself becoming even more warm and fuzzy down below. She was more than ready to take him. Going down on him gave her the chance to evaluate his dimensions and she was more than satisfied before the main event had even begun. She really did strike gold in practically every department when it came to Ethan Hunt.

              Ethan made two pitstops at each breast, taking the nipple into his mouth and adding suction with some tongue action and it sent shivers reverberating up and down her spine. Like the vibrations and shuddering she felt aboard the 727 that night. Was it the best image to have in her head during such a moment? She knew men liked to force less pleasant images in their heads to prevent early finishes since they didn’t have the benefit of multiple orgasms. Well, some could but their refraction periods were generally much longer than those for women.

              As far as Ilsa was concerned, Ethan could play with her flaps and slats any day.

              She allowed her nerves to relax as Ethan’s lips and tongue reached her abdomen and he paused to curl his fingers around the lace of her black underwear, which was a matching set with her bra. She could hear him faintly grunting at the mere sight of hair where her thighs met. He was already enjoying the sight. She could only hope he would enjoy the taste just as much.

              “I haven’t had the chance to shave for a while,” she winced apologetically.

              “The more natural, the better,” Ethan whispered back, flinging her underwear away. They had one hell of a laundry batch ahead of them but he didn’t care. Nothing excited him more than the prospect of bringing Ilsa to a climax multiple times over. She deserved pleasure just as much as he did. It was utterly paramount that the woman enjoyed herself as much as the man, as far as he was concerned. Otherwise there was no point. Sounded pretty basic, but he was disgusted at how frequently selfish some guys apparently were in bed with their significant others.

              He planted more kisses and squeezes on her inner thighs, running his hands up and down her legs. He could feel the subtle but noticeable bristles.

              “Or shaving my legs,” she huffed, rolling her eyes at her lack of preparation.

              “My point stands,” Ethan chuckled, adding more kisses to her thighs and making his way towards her entrance. He could taste the juiciness before his tongue even reached her clit. He breathed her in and gave a sensual groan.

It made Ilsa exhale with relief.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Since the moment I met you,” she impatiently replied, placing her hand on the back of his head and gently guiding him in further.

He didn’t touch her clit with his tongue directly. Not at first. He started on the outside of the vulva and moved in circles around it. The surrounding area of the clit was just as sensitive and it was all about building up anticipation.

He took intermittent deviations to the entrance itself to take in her natural lube and then applying it with his tongue around the surrounding area. It was becoming more tricky to move in a circular motion as Ilsa was now moving her hips up and down. Her breath becoming heavier and heavier with every passing second. He could hear the plump of her hands hitting the duvet and then the scratches of her hands balling into fists and clutching the sheets.

Ethan took a moment to look up at her, his tongue still moving in the improvised pattern. Ilsa’s head was arched back up towards the ceiling, her eyes closed and she was biting her lower lip with intensity. She had to let her mouth fall open to let the moans out. Not so much needing Ethan to hear how good he was being to her, but her body was on the verge of exploding with joy. She needed to ventilate somehow. Her other hand tightened while holding his hair, not to the point of pulling it but Ethan took it as a signal that he was getting her very close.

He had a decision to make. Keep going in circles as he moved closer to the clit and risk missing and ruining her heavily-anticipated climax? Or move up and down across the most sensitive spot above her entrance. The latter was a more secure option. He went for that and began moving vertically. It triggered a sudden gasp from Ilsa but she was still panting and moaning as before. Ethan saw bringing her to orgasm with a circular tongue motion as certainly doable but it would require more practice. He needed to learn to match her hip rhythm more accurately but there was plenty of time to get to grips with it. After all, it was all about building anticipation.

Ethan moved his head up and down as well as his tongue, he brought his mouth closer and began adding suction and Ilsa sucked in a massive lungful of breath. He added pressure while brushing his tongue across her clit. She was right on the cusp of orgasm and no way in hell was he going to let it go to waste. He wanted Ilsa to know from the get-go that she was going to be taken care of in the bedroom in the way she deserved. Always.

Her moans became much more vocal. Ilsa gave one long and continuous groan and her head sunk deeper back into the pillow as waves of ecstasy flooded her brain and body. Every negative feeling she’d endured over the past few days was washed away in an instant. All she could think of was her and Ethan’s life together. Dinner dates, lovemaking sessions, movie and show nights – a potential ring on her finger and carrying her over the threshold, who knows?

She sniffled again with her eyes closed, unable to move and Ethan chuckled, climbing back over her body and resting himself on top of her. His weight and warmth were a comfort in themselves for her and she wrapped her arms around him, accepting his kisses on her neck and then her lips.

“I’m such a bloody mess tonight,” she whispered, sniffling again.

“Again, I hope for happy reasons?”

She nodded, running both hands through his hair and returning his kisses with some of her own. “I didn’t realise you were so good. You must’ve had hundreds of women before me.”

“Overestimating by quite a bit,” Ethan said,

“Come on, there’s no way you can be this good without an exceptional amount of experience.”

“Complaining?” he smirked.

“Not in the slightest, I’m just curious is all.”

“Well, we all have our pasts but right here in the present and the future? You’re the only woman I want,” Ethan quietly concluded, drifting to her neck again. “You deserve everything I have to offer.”

“As do you,” she said, kissing him on his shoulder and breathing in the scent of his skin. “I just hope I’m hitting the mark?”

“I can already feel myself getting hard again, so what do you think?”

“Point taken,” Ilsa said, biting her lower lip with anticipation.

She grunted as she felt Ethan brushing his tip and shaft up and down against her clit. Some playful teasing to get her even more worked up as well as ensuring he was fully hard. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since she made him intensely release himself. It really had been quite a while. There was a lot of catching up to do for both of them and she couldn’t have been more excited about the next few days alone. Nevermind the months and years and even decades to come.

“Ready?” he whispered into her ear.

She brought a leg up over his lower back, brushing her heel against the base of his spine. “You already know the answer to that,” she whispered back.

He said nothing and moved his hand down to aim himself properly.

“Take me, please,” she added.

He effortlessly slid inside and both of them sucked in massive amounts of air. Ilsa’s eyes widened as she curled her arms around his back. He was propped up on his elbows with his arms joining behind her head and the pillow. He brought his hands up to the top of her head and played with her hair while sliding deeper and deeper inside her. The warmth and wetness of her entrance and tightening barrel were sending hurricanes of sensation straight throughout his body. He wanted nothing more than to explode right then and there. No, she doesn’t deserve such disappointment.

“You feel so fucking amazing, you know that?” he grunted, as he began to gently thrust.

“I’m the lucky one,” she replied and they kissed some more on the lips, adding tongue. Ilsa felt another orgasm coming already just from being able to taste herself on Ethan’s tongue. “Did I taste good down there?”

“You tasted amazing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said you downed a whole keg of pineapple earlier,” he playfully chuckled, intensifying his thrusts.

“No idea what you’re on about,” she replied with mild confusion.

“I’ll tell you later. I could’ve gone down on you all night.”

“Same.”

Ethan felt silent and Ilsa could hear his grunts becoming more of a hybrid of nervousness rather than just outright pleasure and enjoyment. She could sense something was on his mind and placed a hand on his cheek to get him to look at her. She raised her eyebrows as she examined those sparkling eyes of his. Ethan stopped, Ilsa still feeling him throbbing inside of her. She already knew what was on his mind deep down but wanted to ask. Better safe than sorry.

“Something wrong? You know you can talk to me about anything?”

“You feel amazing…” he panted. “Too amazing. I’m gonna come no matter how hard I try not to. I’m sorry.”

“Hey!” Ilsa gasped as she could see a wave of shame flood his face. He had the gall to look away and she placed both hands on either side. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid looking into her eyes. “I want you to come. I want to feel amazing for you. You say I deserve the best? Well, you deserve the best too. We’re a relationship of equals, you and I.”

He closed his eyes to process what she said. She could almost feel his heart flutter against her chest. Ilsa then ran a finger up along his spine to send more reassuring tingles throughout his body.

“I just wouldn’t mind making you come with me inside you.”

Ilsa nodded in agreement and brought her hand down to her clit, her fingers brushing against his pubes and base of his shaft in the process. “Come on then, keep going. We’ll get off together. Your mission, should you choose to accept it?”

Ethan didn’t hesitate. He began thrusting again more passionately and they began kissing continuously, moving straight to the tongues. They could still taste each other’s genitalia. She brought up her legs and joined them over his lower back. There was no way he was escaping. Ethan was trapped. He had no choice. Nowhere to go. He was going to come inside her. Ilsa would not have it any other way. She could feel herself getting close again and Ethan’s cock was throbbing even more intensely inside of her. She could feel every movement. She bit her lip again with the mere thought of him flooding her pussy.

“I accept!” he hissed into her ear and his groans became even more vocal.

She was on the edge but knowing Ethan was about to explode was all Ilsa needed for that final nudge. They entered a duet of orgasmic moans, both of their minds becoming flooded with tsunamis of joy and bliss. She felt Ethan’s ribs shudder against her hardened nipples and he kept thrusting some more. He was hyper-sensitive and she began thrusting her hips some more as well to help him enjoy every single ounce of heightened sensation, while feeling the additional warmth inside of her.

“You really were backed up,” she then giggled as Ethan stopped and deflated himself on top of her, his chest heaving. She ran her hands and fingers in random patterns across his back and kept her legs wrapped around him.

“I guess I was saving it all for the right person,” he laughed, and they kissed before returning to a cuddling stance and Ilsa breathed him in some more, her nose tucked into his shoulder. She added a tiny kiss to his heated skin.

“I’m most honoured.”

“That reminds me,” Ethan sighed, lifting himself up on an elbow so he could look into Ilsa’s eyes. He stroked her on the cheek. “A question to ask you.”

She lifted her eyebrows with curiosity and allowed a leg to fall from his back. She could feel herself and Ethan rolling onto their sides ever so slightly. He was still inside her but rapidly growing softer. She became slightly nervous about the eventual leakage from her entrance and the sheets beneath them.  

“Would you – Ilsa Faust - do me the honour…of becoming my girlfriend?”

She beamed and then giggled, tingling at the mere mentioning of the word. It felt more like a rank. A rank in his life which she could only have dreamed of up until now. It’s not like he was proposing to her but he may as well have been in that moment. She’d made it. Finally. She was now the woman in Ethan Hunt’s life. His lover, confidant, his best friend. Everything and everyone he could ever need in his life.

“Well, you certainly took your time asking!” she playfully muttered, giving him a naughty look. “Are you sure this isn’t post-nut clarity talking?”

“Oh trust me, I may be out of fuel but there’s plenty of hydraulic fluid left.”

“Damn, aviation humour?” she chuckled, her chest heaving as a result and she pulled a loose strand from his hair.

“Given the last few days, I deemed it appropriate,” he said, before taking her hand into his, giving it a kiss and then interlocking their fingers. “So…what’s it to be?”

“My mission, should I choose to accept it?”

He nodded.

“I most graciously accept!” she smiled and they made out for a few minutes. They were established. A personal mission for Ilsa finally accomplished. Who knew what the next few days or weeks would bring. She didn’t care in the moment. She was too busy enjoying the present to care about the past or the future. It wasn’t a feeling or state of mind to which she was accustomed, but she was most certainly not complaining either.

She had Ethan in her arms, not just for now, but forever. She wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in his embrace right then and there.

But first.

She patted him on the shoulder. “Shower?”

“Then bed?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Ethan groaned as he pushed himself off from her. It was among the hardest things he had to do in life and she took it as a compliment of her body and warmth. He took her by the hand to take her with him. It was all she wanted. To go with him whenever, wherever. Now she had a Shakira song stuck in her head.

Ethan led her to the bathroom and Ilsa nervously kept a hand over her cunt. She could feel the force of gravity working its magic on what Ethan had left behind inside of her. The shower really couldn’t have come soon enough. She got a brief look at the shiny whiteness and checkered tiles of the bathroom as Ethan reached in through the tinted shower doors and turned the dial all the way to get the jet going.

They stepped in and Ilsa immediately felt much more comfortable. Any leakage could run all the way down her legs and away. They washed each other’s hair and Ethan apologised for the lack of female products available on the rack.

“I can always do some shopping tomorrow. I need to withdraw some dollars anyway,” she shrugged. She was already picturing herself loading a plastic bag full of toiletries and ingredients to make them both breakfast in the morning. She had observed the kitchenette just long enough to deduce that she had all the tools needed for the job. It was something for Tomorrow Ilsa to deal with. She reckoned she’d fully earned the right to merely procrastinate and chill for the night.

She was then propelled from her thoughts by the feeling of Ethan’s palm on one of her rear cheeks and squeezing it tightly.

“Like when I do that?” he asked, his face partially covered by a stream of warm water trickling down in all directions like a waterfall.

Ilsa brought her arm around and let her hand come flying back and she outright spanked him. He jolted slightly from surprise and closed his eyes to snicker to himself.

“Does that answer your question?”

“We’re going to be sniping each other nonstop in this place from now on,” he said.

“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” she laughed.

They decided they’d had enough of the showering and rinsed each other in turns with the detachable showerhead. They stepped out with Ethan once again taking her by the hand and they towelled each other down. Ilsa needed some more time with the towel for her hair alone and she made a mental note to invest in a hairdryer during tomorrow’s shopping. She briefly considered asking Ethan if he’d like to tag along but as well as wanting to get her bearings by herself, she also wanted him to sleep in. He deserved the rest and she could only hope that their time in bed together helped drain any remaining negativity from his head.

He was already back in bed with the covers pulled over him and gazing up at the ceiling when Ilsa rejoined him. Their clothes were gone from the floor, presumably in the laundry machine and Ilsa paused momentarily. She heard the gathering rumble from a nearby machine in another room and shrugged off the thought.

Ethan looked over at her and smiled, reaching for the corner of the duvet to pull it up and Ilsa slid herself inside. They turned in towards each other and could feel their bodies shutting down. There was nothing left to do. Nothing left to worry about or contemplate. At least for that night. There would be something else eventually. It was inevitable. Ilsa accepted it. She was too blissful of the current moment to care that much.

“Goodnight, darling,” she whispered into his chest, feeling his arms tighten around her as well as their legs interlocking.

“Goodnight, honey,” Ethan whispered back, establishing each other’s pet names. “Sweet dreams,” he then added.

“I’m living them,” she exhaled, before allowing sleep to take her.

Notes:

Well, we’ve reached the end of the story! I hope you’ve all enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed writing it! I’ve been obsessed with the subject of aviation all my life and couldn’t resist forcing a crisis involving an aircraft upon Ethan, Ilsa and the team. They always get it done in the end! I’m quite a late arrival in this fandom, but I’m currently planning on working on more fics involving the Ethan/Ilsa pairing!
I’m presently in the process of moving house, which has put a damper on my productivity as of late! However, I’ll certainly post as soon as I can!
Thank you all again for taking the time to read!