Work Text:
The bar was suffocating with perfume and money. Heat bled through the air, clinging under tailored suits, while diamond watches winked in the low light like small, cruel stars. The bassline of the music made the floor hum with a second pulse, conversations stacking and splintering until they blurred into static. Laughter snapped sharp as glass.
Ethan Hunt slipped through it like smoke. Mask fused tight to his skin, his real face erased. Tonight he was someone else—dangerous enough to catch the right eyes, forgettable enough to disappear when needed. A predator in a room full of predators.
He leaned on the bar, voice pitched low. “Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender slid the glass toward him. Condensation bit into his palm as he wrapped his fingers around it. He wouldn’t drink it. He never did. The glass was a prop, like the smirk tugging at his mouth, like the arrogance carved into his posture.
He’d played this role a hundred times before. Easy. Predictable. Except—
Except he froze.
Across the room: Benji Dunn.
The sight landed like a blow to the ribs. Benji—awkward, brilliant Benji—half-leaning at the polished bar, tie crooked, hair tousled as if he’d fought a comb on the way out the door and lost. He didn’t belong here among wolves in Armani, but he stood steady anyway, scanning the crowd with restless vigilance Ethan knew too well.
His gut twisted. Benji wasn’t supposed to be here. The briefing had him chained to embassy feeds across the city. Yet here he was, pretending to study the cocktail list. And Ethan, with a soldier’s eye, saw what others never would: the faint gleam of an earpiece catching colored light, the way his fingers tapped the stem of his glass in patterns too precise to be nerves. His watch was streaming data. His lips moved faintly with subvocal commands.
Technically, Benji was working—surveillance wrapped in ordinariness. To everyone else he was just another Brit killing time with a gin and tonic. But Ethan knew the truth: this was Benji’s battlefield. Listening. Recording. Cataloguing. Invisible until it was too late to stop him. The perfect ghost in plain sight.
Ethan should have looked away. He didn’t.
Because memory betrayed him. It flicked through him with each heartbeat—
Benji hunched over a laptop in some windowless safehouse, blue light etching the exhaustion into his face.
Benji’s voice cracking over comms when Ethan came back alive after they’d all thought him dead.
The quiet pressure of Benji’s shoulder against his on a long stakeout, silence stretched taut but safe, like they could both breathe easier simply being near.
All of it slammed into Ethan now, sharp as shrapnel. He gripped his whiskey harder. Duty in one hand, desire in the other, both tearing him open.
Benji’s gaze swept the room—and caught him. Of course it did. Benji always noticed him, even through the mask, even when he shouldn’t. His brows knit, like something didn’t quite add up. Then came the smile: nervous, daring.
And then—God help him—Benji started walking over.
Each step was gravity. Ethan’s pulse hammered. The mask suddenly felt like a prison.
“Evening,” Benji said, sliding onto the stool beside him. Close enough that Ethan could smell soap under the tang of gin, and something warmer, more human, beneath the bar’s haze of perfume.
Ethan tilted his head, letting the false face work. “Evening yourself. Are you here alone?”
Benji laughed under his breath, tugging at his crooked tie. “That obvious? I’m… technically working. At least that’s what my boss thinks I’m doing. Blending in, you know? Invisible man. I sneak off for a drink, no one notices. Unless you tell.”
The smirk Ethan gave him was too sharp for who he really was, but Benji eased at it anyway, his shoulders softening.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
And Ethan’s mind fractured again—
Benji cracking too many jokes before a mission, filling silence so others could breathe.
Benji shoving Ethan behind cover once, terrified and shaking, but unyielding.
Benji’s eyes when Ethan returned alive, lighting like the world itself had tilted back into place.
Every memory cut deeper. The mask grew heavier. The lie choked tighter.
Benji studied him with that unnerving, analytical gaze, as if sheer will could peel the silicone from Ethan’s face.
“You don’t sound local,” Benji said at last.
Ethan took a sip of whiskey, forcing it down. The burn seared like punishment. He needed the pain. “Not from around here.”
Benji tilted his head, mouth curving faintly. “You don’t look like you’re here to gamble. Or dance.” His eyes flicked over Ethan, sharp but softening. “You look like you’re here for trouble.”
The laugh that left Ethan was too real, dangerous. “Maybe I am.”
Benji ducked his head, cheeks coloring, but didn’t retreat. His voice dropped. “Well… trouble’s not always bad. In the right company.”
Desire surged sharp as a blade. Ethan leaned closer, voice lowering into something intimate, something reckless. “And what kind of company would that be?”
Benji’s gaze lifted, hesitant but steady. “I think you already know.”
The ache became unbearable. Duty in one hand, desire in the other, both pulling until it hurt to breathe. He wanted to rip the mask away, to let Benji see him, to confess everything that had lived unspoken between them for years. But if he did—he’d wreck the mission. He might wreck Benji too.
So he didn’t.
Instead, the night spun out in half-truths and flirtation. Benji laughed once, too loud, and it echoed through Ethan’s chest like an old wound reopening. Their sleeves brushed—“by accident”—and neither pulled away. The world shrank to just them, orbiting words too dangerous to say.
Then Benji’s watch pulsed. His eyes widened. “Hell. I should… probably get back before anyone notices.”
Ethan nodded, though the flicker of disappointment in Benji’s smile gutted him.
“Will I see you again?” Ethan asked, softer than he should have.
Benji’s smile wavered, but it was real. “I hope so.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Tie still crooked. Shoulders squared. Ordinary. Extraordinary.
Later, in the silence of a safehouse, Ethan peeled the mask away. His own face stared back in the mirror—eyes tired, mouth tight with all the words he hadn’t spoken. The ache lingered, merciless.
He whispered into the empty dark:
“You already did.”
The safehouse smelled faintly of burnt coffee and damp brick, the kind of scent that clung no matter how many windows you opened. The little kitchen was dim, lit only by the bluish glow of Benji’s laptop. He sat hunched at the scarred table, screen open, fingers resting uselessly on the keys. He wasn’t typing. Not really. His mind kept wandering back—to the night before, to a stranger with eyes like a blade and a smile just as sharp.
It was absurd. He’d brushed shoulders with dangerous, magnetic people his entire career, but this one… this one had lingered. Maybe it was the way the man had looked at him—really looked, like Benji wasn’t just wallpaper in the background of someone else’s story. Maybe it was the ease of it, the ridiculous, unguarded thrill of flirting in the dark, his heart hammering like he was twenty again and had no business being reckless.
Benji scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. He was imagining things. Whoever that man was, he was already gone—just a ghost pulled from whiskey haze and too little sleep.
“Late night?” a voice asked behind him.
Benji nearly snapped his laptop shut on his own fingers. He twisted in his chair. Ethan stood in the doorway, casual in a dark t-shirt, hair damp and curling from a shower. He looked infuriatingly composed, like he hadn’t walked through fire barely twenty-four hours ago.
Benji coughed into his hand, trying to mask the flush in his ears. “Something like that.”
Ethan tilted his head, studying him with that relentless focus that always felt like being pinned to a board under glass. “You okay?”
The truth stuck sharp in his throat. He couldn’t exactly say: I spent half the night tangled up in conversation with a stranger who made my stomach lurch like a freefall, and now I can’t stop replaying the way he leaned in, the way he smiled at me. Especially not to Ethan.
So instead, he forced a shrug. “Fine. Just… tired.”
Ethan crossed the room, poured himself coffee into a chipped mug, and leaned against the counter with that effortless steadiness that always grounded Benji whether he asked for it or not. He didn’t press, didn’t push. Just was.
And then—Ethan laughed at something, a low, quiet exhale of amusement.
The sound hit Benji square in the chest. Familiar. Too familiar.
His heart skipped, stuttered. Where—where had he—
The bar. Last night. That same low thread of laughter curling like smoke through the noise.
Benji blinked hard, throat suddenly dry. His mind reeled, drawing lines he shouldn’t draw. No. Ridiculous. A coincidence. Just his brain playing tricks, muddling voices together after too much alcohol. Except—Ethan’s mouth curved, slow and wry, and for a gut-twisting instant, Benji saw the stranger’s smirk overlaying Ethan’s face.
It knocked the breath from him.
“Benj?” Ethan’s brow furrowed, voice softer now. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Benji barked out a laugh, too fast, too thin. “Yeah—no, I’m fine. Just… running on fumes, is all.”
Ethan’s gaze lingered, sharp with doubt, but he let it slide. He always did.
When he finally left the room, mug in hand, silence rushed back in like a tide.
Benji stayed frozen in his chair, pulse hammering, the phantom weight of last night replaying in his head—the lean of a shoulder, the burn of a look, the curl of a smile he shouldn’t be comparing.
Because suddenly, the impossible didn’t feel so impossible anymore.
The day dragged.
Benji buried himself in the laptop, trying to chase down embassy feed chatter, but his focus splintered at every turn. Words blurred on the screen, lines of code slipping through his grasp like water. Every so often his gaze flicked sideways—toward the closed door Ethan had vanished through, toward the sound of footsteps shifting somewhere down the hall.
It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
And yet—
The laugh echoed again in his memory. The curve of a mouth, the faint rasp of a whisper. He could almost feel the stranger’s breath ghosting his ear, the teasing line dropped over the rim of a glass: Maybe I am.
Benji’s fingers stilled over the keyboard.
No. He was imagining things. Had to be. Ethan Hunt didn’t slip into bars and flirt with him under someone else’s face. Ethan was a force of nature, a storm wrapped in flesh—he didn’t have time for games, let alone… that.
And yet.
Last night’s stranger had stood too close, leaned in like he’d known exactly how to pull Benji’s balance out from under him. Eyes sharp as glass, hands sure. Dangerous, yes, but… familiar.
Benji shook his head hard, muttering under his breath, “You’re drunk, Benji. Still drunk. Or sleep-deprived. Or both.”
He forced himself back into his work, hammering at the keys until the sound filled the room. Anything to drown out the thought circling tighter and tighter in his chest.
But later, when Ethan reappeared with a stack of files under his arm, shoulders loose, shirt clinging faintly from the heat, Benji’s breath hitched in spite of himself. He caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of the same tilt of head, the same half-smile, and the suspicion coiled sharp and bright before he shoved it ruthlessly down.
Coincidence. Pure coincidence.
Still… when Ethan brushed past him on the way to the table, the faintest trace of aftershave clung to the air. A scent that didn’t belong to Ethan’s usual spartan kit. A scent Benji knew, impossibly, from the bar.
His pulse spiked.
No. Impossible.
But the seed had already taken root, digging deeper no matter how hard he tried to smother it.
The IMF briefing room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that bristled, heavy with Kittridge’s brand of precision — silence sharp enough to cut. Even seasoned agents sat a little straighter in their chairs, as if afraid a crooked tie or a coffee ring on the polished table might be enough to draw his eye.
Benji slid into his seat with his laptop tucked under one arm. He felt frayed, unraveling at the edges from a night of restless half-sleep. His dreams had been strange — too vivid, too close to memory. He kept telling himself it was absurd, that he hadn’t really spent an evening pressed shoulder to shoulder with a stranger who carried Ethan’s smile. Just fatigue. Just bourbon. Just a brain that didn’t know when to let go.
Kittridge cleared his throat, and the sound cracked like a gavel. Benji’s focus snapped forward.
“We’re moving quickly,” Kittridge said, his tone clipped. “The rogue cell has fortified itself under a front called the Directorate. We believe they’ve compromised at least three field officers already.” His pause was deliberate, heavy. “Your assignment is insertion, confirmation, and, if possible… neutralization.”
The word struck like ice in Benji’s throat. Neutralization. Kittridge never used it lightly.
“And,” Kittridge continued, eyes sliding toward the door, “you won’t be going alone.”
The door opened.
Benji’s heart slammed once, hard.
The man who walked in was all edges — sharp suit, lean frame, every line honed into deliberate precision. Not Ethan Hunt. Not the Ethan Benji knew. But—
The stranger from the bar.
The memory hit with the force of a fist. The smirk in dim light. The low curl of a voice in his ear. Maybe I am.
Benji’s breath caught before he could stop it.
Kittridge gestured. “This is Adam Butler. He’s been operating on the periphery of their network. You’ll work as partners.”
“Butler” extended a hand. His expression was smooth, professional, almost bored. “Benji Dunn.”
Benji forced his grip steady even as his pulse thundered. “We’ve met,” he said before he could reel it back.
One of Kittridge’s brows arched. “Is that so?”
Ethan — Butler — didn’t miss a beat. His smirk was perfect, too perfect. “I like to know who I’m working with. We had… a drink.”
Benji’s chest tightened. His eyes searched Butler’s face for any crack in the marble, any stray detail that might prove last night wasn’t just in his head. But the mask was flawless. Polished arrogance, nothing more. Except… except behind it, for a fraction of a second, something flickered. Something that pulled at him in the marrow of his bones.
Kittridge shuffled his papers, satisfied. “Good. Then you’ll work well together. Butler, you know the players. Dunn, you’ll handle technical infiltration. Rendezvous is twenty-two hundred hours at the Vienna consulate gala. You’ll pose as prospective contractors. Blend in, gather intel, extract without trace.”
The folder snapped shut with finality. “Dismissed.”
The moment the door clicked closed behind him, silence rushed in, thick as smoke.
Benji crossed his arms, heart still tripping. “So. Butler, was it?”
The smirk returned — too sharp, too rehearsed. “That’s the name they gave me.”
Benji studied him, head tilted, letting suspicion braid itself with something warmer, more dangerous. “You’re awfully good at this. Almost too good.”
“Comes with practice.”
“Right.” Benji’s voice dropped, the words escaping before he could check them. “And here I thought you just enjoyed picking up colleagues in bars.”
For the barest instant, Ethan’s mask threatened to slip. His jaw clenched, something raw pressing hard against the disguise. Then the smirk snapped back into place, practiced and lethal. He leaned in just enough for Benji’s breath to falter.
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
Benji swallowed hard, pulse leaping in spite of himself. “Depends,” he said, quieter now. “On whether you ever plan on telling me who you really are.”
For one fractured heartbeat, Ethan almost did. He could feel the urge clawing at him, to rip away the mask, to let Benji see what was written beneath. But Kittridge’s words still rang in his head, and the mission loomed like a guillotine overhead.
So he only smiled — sharp, devastating, a blade of a promise — and said:
“You’ll find I’m full of surprises, Dunn.”
The safehouse wasn’t much—a cramped Viennese flat with peeling wallpaper, low ceilings, and a faint tang of mildew that clung to the corners and the threadbare curtains. Benji had claimed the battered kitchen table as his base of operations, laptop humming, wires snaking across the floor into portable servers. Chaos helped him think; clutter sharpened his mind.
But tonight, it wasn’t the tech making his chest constrict.
It was Butler.
The man moved through the flat like the air bent itself around him. Calm, deliberate, precise. Eyes scanning, hands testing locks, measuring angles of exit—all the same motions Ethan always made when Benji had caught him in those rare, unguarded moments.
Benji tried to focus on his screen, fingers drumming on the keys. “You could sit down, you know. Not everything has to be about pacing like a caged tiger.”
Butler didn’t stop. “And if I am one?”
Benji didn’t look up. “Then I’d suggest stretching. All that tension can’t be good for your spine.”
A faint huff of amusement escaped him. “You always talk this much?”
Benji glanced up—and damn it—there it was again. The ghost of a smile, that tilt of the mouth that made his stomach lurch, just crooked enough to unravel him.
“Only when I’m nervous,” Benji muttered, quieter than intended.
Silence stretched, thick and taut.
Butler’s chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to let it slip. Not here, not now, with Benji watching like he could see through walls, through façades. He pressed his posture into something sharp, precise. “Then maybe you should talk less.”
Benji arched a brow, masking the tug at his chest with sarcasm. “Right. Excellent advice from Mister Man of Mystery. Do you practice being insufferable, or does it just come naturally?”
A sharper smirk, and yet, Benji caught the flicker beneath it—strain, weariness, the faintest crack of something human.
He leaned back, arms crossed. “I’ve worked with enough spies to know when someone’s overplaying their hand. You’ve got the whole… suave, shadowy operative thing down pat. But every once in a while—” His gaze lingered deliberately. “—you flinch.”
Ethan’s throat went dry.
Benji softened, voice lower now. “And it’s not the flinch of someone unsure. It’s the flinch of someone carrying far more than they’re letting on.”
The air between them thickened, charged, and dangerous.
Ethan wanted to confess, to rip the mask away and admit it was him, that every smirk, every subtle look, had been bleeding through. But the mission sat on him like lead, and Kittridge’s warning echoed in his mind: You can’t compromise this cover. Not even for him.
So instead he stepped closer, hand resting on the table beside Benji’s laptop, close enough that Benji had to lift his chin to meet his eyes.
“Careful, Dunn,” he murmured, voice low, threaded with something that almost broke free. “If you keep staring like that, you might see something you don’t like.”
Benji swallowed, pulse spiking, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel. “Or maybe I’ll see something you’re not ready to admit.”
The words hovered, electric, dangerous, intimate.
Ethan pulled back first, retreating to the shadows, mask pressing against him like a vice, guilt heavier than ever.
And Benji? He stared at the screen, pretending to type. But his mind was racing, replaying every motion, every inflection. He didn’t know why it felt familiar. Didn’t know why his chest tightened or why his stomach lurched. He chalked it up to coincidence, fatigue, maybe last night’s gin and tonic twisting memory.
Still, something had shifted. Something in that presence, in that precision, tugged at him in a way he couldn’t name.
This mission wasn’t just about the Directorate. Not anymore.
It was about the man in the room, the one hiding behind that mask, and the quiet, relentless pull he couldn’t ignore.
The city outside the window had gone quiet, or as quiet as Vienna ever got. Tramlines lay still, streetlamps buzzed faintly in the drizzle, and the occasional car hummed past like a distant heartbeat. Inside the safehouse, darkness pooled in corners, broken only by a single lamp on the kitchen counter, its yellow glow soft against cracked paint and peeling wallpaper.
Benji was still awake. Always awake on nights before operations. His fingers drummed against the laptop keys, pretending to tweak code, but his mind was chasing circles: Butler’s too-familiar movements, the ghost of a smile that seemed ripped from memory, the way his pulse had leapt when the man leaned close at the bar.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” The voice cut through the quiet — low, measured, unmistakably controlled.
Benji startled, spinning in his chair. He hadn’t heard him move. Of course he hadn’t — Butler never made a sound. Leaning against the wall, half-shrouded in shadow, a glass of water cradled in his hand, the man seemed impossibly calm.
“I could say the same to you,” Benji shot back, masking the startle with bravado.
Butler shrugged, sipping, the faintest curl of moisture on his lips hiding a dryness he didn’t bother acknowledging. “Old habits.
“Right. The strong, silent insomniac routine.” Benji folded his arms, leaning back, studying him. “You know, Butler, for a man who doesn’t talk much, you’ve got a way of… filling a room.”
Ethan forced a smirk, leaning against the counter, masking the pull in his chest. “And you don’t mind?”
Benji’s laugh was quiet, a little breathless. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Depends what you’re filling it with.”
Beneath the casual banter, a sharp edge ran between them. Ethan felt it pressing into him, the way tension can cut through the air without warning. He set the glass down and stepped closer, deliberate, slow, like gravity itself drew him forward.
Benji looked up, blue eyes catching the lamp light, steady, unflinching. Then, almost against his own will, he tilted his head, appraising, perceptive.
“Have you ever been told,” Benji said softly, “that you remind me of someone?”
Ethan froze.
Benji’s smile was faint, almost shy, but his voice was steady, measured. “The way you move. How you check a room before you sit. The way you… look at me. Like you’re cataloguing every way things could go wrong.” His gaze held firm. “There’s only one person I know who does that.”
Ethan’s breath caught, tight in his chest. Somehow, he kept the mask in place, neutral, and unreadable. “And who would that be?”
Benji held the stare a moment too long, fingers tapping lightly on the table. He wanted to say it — the name, Ethan — burning at the back of his throat. But he didn’t. Instead, he smiled quickly, a little too quickly, shaking his head. “Forget it. Must be the nerves talking.”
Relief and guilt crashed through Ethan in equal measure. He wanted to tell him, rip the mask off and admit everything, but the mission pressed down like iron. Kittridge’s warning played over and over in his mind: If your cover slips, the entire op collapses.
So he stepped back into his role, pulling the mask tighter around him. “Get some sleep, Dunn. Tomorrow’s going to be a long night.”
Benji rolled his eyes, but the curiosity, the tension, lingered. “Fine. But don’t think your little mysterious routine isn’t driving me mad. I’ve cracked harder puzzles than you, Butler.”
“Maybe I like being unsolved,” Ethan said, before he could stop the words from escaping.
It was raw, too close, and he immediately regretted it.
Benji froze, breath catching almost imperceptibly. Then, after a beat, he looked away, muttering, “Yeah, well… we’ll see about that.”
He snapped the laptop closed harder than necessary, the screen blinking into darkness. Ethan lingered in the doorway, mask suffocating, guilt clawing at him, before retreating into the shadows of his room.
Neither of them slept much that night.
Vienna gleamed like a jewel that night. Chandeliers poured liquid light across polished marble floors, violins drifted through the air like smoke, and diplomats in tuxedos moved with the predatory grace of sharks beneath the glitter. The gala was elegant on the surface—but underneath, IMF knew it was a nest of snakes.
Ethan Hunt, wearing another man’s face, stood in the middle of it all.
The mask was seamless. Posture, perfect. He was Butler—sharp, commanding, just dangerous enough to vanish among the predators. And yet, his attention kept flicking to Benji Dunn. Bow tie slightly crooked, hands tense at his sides, eyes darting just enough to betray nerves he thought he had hidden. Ethan recognized the rhythm immediately: the tilt of Benji’s head, the way he breathed through tension, the subtle restlessness. Small, unconscious cues that no one else would notice—but Ethan could read like a map.
The comm crackled. Kittridge’s voice, cold and precise:
“Stay close. Remember, you’ll be seen as partners—professional, and otherwise. Blend in.”
Otherwise. Ethan clenched his jaw.
Benji drifted to the bar, forcing a smile that didn’t quite erase the flutter in his chest. “Well, partner,” he whispered under his breath, “let’s hope we sell this.
Ethan allowed himself the smallest smirk. “Just follow my lead.”
They moved together through the gala—sliding between conversations, cataloguing exits, scanning for threats. To anyone watching, they were professionals, partners in the mission. To Ethan, every glance, every step, every brush of Benji’s sleeve spoke in a language only he could read. His hand brushing the small of Benji’s back, leaning too close when whispering intel—each movement perfectly “cover,” but every accidental touch igniting a storm beneath his own suit.
Benji’s pulse hammered with every brush of Butler’s arm, every murmur of voice that carried warmth beneath the formality. He couldn’t explain why a chill ran down his spine when Butler’s gaze lingered—why the posture, the cadence, the faint exhale when he laughed felt so hauntingly familiar. Something about the stranger stirred a recognition deep in muscle memory, in the way one recognizes the rhythm of someone they’ve trusted for years without thinking about it. His rational mind whispered coincidence—but his gut said otherwise.
Then came the waltz.
“Dance,” Ethan murmured, guiding Benji subtly toward the floor.
Benji blinked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Cover,” Ethan replied, letting the smallest thread of command seep into his voice, steady, confident, magnetic.
Benji’s protest died when Ethan’s hand closed around his. Strong. Unyielding. Guiding him in a way that left no room for argument. They moved as one, the swell of strings swallowing the room, the gala melting into blur.
Ethan led effortlessly. Years of training made the steps fluid, invisible—but for him, each movement carried the memory of past dances, past missions, past stakes where he and Benji had moved together in tandem, unspoken, unerring. Benji stumbled once, cheeks flushing, but caught the rhythm, eyes wide.
“You’ve done this before,” he whispered, breathless.
“Maybe once or twice.”
Benji laughed, brittle, bright, cutting tension like a shard of glass. “Of course you have. What don’t you do, Butler?”
Ethan hesitated. Just long enough. Long enough for Benji to notice—the subtle tilt of his head, the careless grace, the way his thumb brushed Benji’s knuckles with a tenderness that belonged to someone who knew him too well.
Benji froze mid-step. Something clicked. Not consciously, not fully—he didn’t know it was Ethan—but every fiber of recognition thrummed through him. The gait, the laugh, the way Butler’s eyes scanned the room with him in mind—he’d seen it before. Felt it before. And the thought lodged in his chest like a blade. “…Ethan?”
The word barely left his lips, swallowed almost immediately by violins. Ethan’s mask quivered, the performance faltering for a heartbeat, but he caught himself, spinning Benji into the next step with practiced fluidity.
“Stay focused,” Ethan whispered, voice clipped, tension threading the words. Too sharp, too urgent.
Benji exhaled sharply, hurt and confusion flashing across his face, but he let himself be guided, caught in the gravity of Butler’s pull.
From the outside, they were perfect: two operatives lost in the rhythm, intimate, professional, unreadable. Inside, Ethan burned alive, every touch, every glance, every moment a reminder of what he couldn’t risk exposing.
When the song ended, Ethan let go too quickly, already scanning the room, clinging to the mission. Benji stood still, pulse high, eyes narrowed, staring at the man beside him. He didn’t push—not yet. But his world had tilted. Recognition was there, raw and unformed, a spark he couldn’t yet name.
And Ethan knew the mask wouldn’t hold forever.
The gala dissolved into chaos faster than a snapped wire.
A gunshot cracked above the music, shattering crystal chandeliers and sending diplomats scattering like startled birds. Screams ricocheted against marble walls, the swell of panicked voices colliding into a single, jarring roar.
“Targets moving,” Kittridge’s voice cut through the comms, icy and precise. “Eyes on the Minister. Do not lose him.”
Ethan’s instincts flared—mission first, always—but he couldn’t ignore the way Benji stiffened beside him, fingers twitching toward the concealed weapon under his jacket.
“Stay close,” Ethan hissed, his hand gripping Benji’s shoulder, steering him through the chaos.
“I’m not exactly going to wander off, am I?” Benji shot back, trying for humor, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
They darted through panicked guests, ducking under overturned tables, weaving around scattered champagne flutes. Ethan’s mind catalogued exits, anticipated enemy movement—but Benji’s hot, ragged breath brushed his arm, his heartbeat a drum against Ethan’s ribs, too loud, too human, too raw.
Then the shooters broke cover. Black-clad, disciplined, weapons raised—the kind of men Ethan knew too well.
“Down!” he barked, dragging Benji behind a column as bullets splintered plaster.
Benji cursed under his breath, fumbling with his comm. “I’m pinned here! Where the hell is—”
“Focus,” Ethan cut in, sharp and unyielding, hand lingering a heartbeat too long on Benji’s arm, a tether in the storm.
They fought their way through the chaos—cover fire, sprinting steps, the searing heat of adrenaline washing over them. Ethan shielded Benji more than once, instinct overriding protocol, moving like every calculated step meant keeping him alive. Because maybe it did.
By the time they burst into the Vienna night, rain slick and cold, Benji was pale, shaking, but alive. Their breaths hung between them in frosty clouds, sirens wailing somewhere distant.
Ethan yanked off his comm, scanning the streets for threats. “We need to move. Now.”
But Benji didn’t move. He stood frozen, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
“That was you,” he said, voice breaking between disbelief and anger. “At the bar. At the safehouse. All of it.”
Ethan froze. Mask still on, but the truth—the way he’d looked at him, protected him, guarded him—had betrayed him.
Benji stepped closer, finger jabbing at Ethan’s chest. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I know you. I know the way you—” His voice faltered, softer now, trembling. “The way you look at me.”
The words hit harder than any bullet. Ethan felt the world tilt, every year of secrecy and distance crashing into this single, combustible moment. He wanted to deny it. To protect him. But God, he couldn’t.
Slowly, trembling, Ethan reached up and peeled the mask from his face.
Benji’s breath caught.
And there he was. Ethan Hunt. Eyes raw, jaw tight, vulnerability laid bare in the floodlight glow of a Vienna alley.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said, voice hoarse. “I never meant for you to get pulled into this. I never wanted—”
“Stop.” Benji’s voice cracked, equal parts relief, fury, and heartbreak. “You let me think—you let me—” He dragged hands through his hair, a half-hysterical laugh breaking free. “God, Ethan. Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Thinking I was losing my mind because no one else could possibly—”
“I couldn’t tell you. Kittridge—” Ethan stepped forward, desperate.
“Kittridge can go to hell!” Benji snapped, voice loud enough to echo off the wet walls, then lowered, chest heaving. Eyes glimmering with tears and fury. “You. You don’t get to do this. Not with me.”
Silence stretched between them, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Then Benji shoved him—not hard enough to harm, but enough to crack Ethan’s facade. “You don’t get to make me fall for you under a bloody alias.”
The words rang like gunfire. Ethan’s heart slammed. His mouth opened, closed, throat dry, pulse thunderous.
Benji sagged, exhaustion breaking through adrenaline. Voice softer, raw. “Tell me the truth, Ethan. Right here. Right now. Or don’t ever—”
Ethan didn’t let him finish.
He surged forward, cupping Benji’s face in both hands, and kissed him like the world was ending.
Benji gasped against him, clinging, fingers tangling in lapels, a lifeline and confession all at once. The kiss was messy, desperate, years of tension snapping at once. Sirens screamed, Vienna burned behind them, but in that alley, nothing else existed.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Ethan whispered the words he should have said long ago:
“It was always me.”
The safehouse was a crumbling flat above a shuttered tailor’s shop, forgotten in a street that had forgotten itself. The walls sagged under old damp, plaster peeling in jagged ribbons. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting long, twitching shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Dust hung in the air, thick and bitter, clinging to sweat and the copper tang of blood still smeared faintly across their clothes.
It was the first place in hours that hadn’t been riddled with gunfire or echoed with pursuit.
Ethan slammed the lock into place, his movements automatic, but every motion tore at him. His ribs ached, bruises blooming dark beneath his shirt, breath shallow and jagged. His hands trembled—not from fear, he told himself—but from too many hours at the edge of chaos.
Benji slumped into the armchair opposite, the leather groaning under his weight. His hair was plastered with sweat and dust, his shirt stained and one sleeve streaked with dried blood—not his own. And beneath the dim lamplight, the faint trace of red still lingered on his lips, a ghost of Ethan’s kiss.
Silence stretched, heavy and human, filling the flat more than any walls could. It pressed against their chests until it became unbearable.
Benji broke first, voice rough and raw. “So… you’re just going to tell me why you thought it was a good idea to—what? Flirt your way through my entire sense of reality?”
The words cut sharper than any bullet, jagged and tremulous.
Ethan sank onto the edge of the bed, every joint protesting. He forced stillness, forcing control, but his eyes were bare—raw, stripped of the usual armor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he admitted, low, sanded down by everything he’d held back.
“That’s not an answer.” Benji laughed, brittle and broken. “God, Ethan, do you know what that did to me? I thought—” His breath hitched. “I thought I’d gone completely mad. You, of all people.”
Ethan leaned forward, elbows pressing into his knees. “I wanted to keep you safe. If Kittridge had even an inkling—anyone—thought for a second…” He swallowed hard, words jagged. “…I can take it when they come for me. I know that. But not you. Never you.”
Benji’s hands dropped, searching Ethan’s eyes—sharp, wounded, but flickers of softness threading through. “You think lying to me keeps me safe?”
“I think,” Ethan said, voice nearly gone, dragging the confession out, “that I don’t know how to stop protecting you. Even if it means you hate me for it.”
The words landed between them like shrapnel. Neither flinched—but both bled.
Benji turned his face toward the cracked blinds, where strips of city light cut through the gloom. Outside, the world still burned—sirens in the distance, a muted glow of fire—but inside, all that existed was the echo of Ethan’s voice. Finally, softer now, he said: “You kissed me.”
Ethan’s chest constricted. “…I did.”
“You don’t get to take that back.”
“I won’t.”
Benji rose from the chair, legs shaky but determined, moving until the warmth of his body brushed Ethan’s. Silence stretched, only their breaths filling the flat, uneven and trembling.
Then, slow and deliberate, Benji crouched, bracing a hand against Ethan’s knee. His palm was warm, grounding. His voice ghosted against Ethan’s skin. “If you ever lie to me like that again—”
Ethan’s hand fell over his wrist, gentle but firm, holding him in place. His own voice cracked as he whispered, “Never again. You have my word.”
Something in Benji’s shoulders softened, a tension uncoiling. It wasn’t trust—not yet—but it was the fragile, dangerous beginning.
A single sharp nod, then foreheads pressed together. They trembled, breathing the same thin, metallic-tinged air, bound by everything unspoken, everything survived, everything confessed without words.
Outside, Vienna burned. Kittridge’s net was tightening, tomorrow would bring fresh danger. But in the crumbling flat above the shuttered tailor’s shop, for one fragile hour, they were just Ethan and Benji—bloodied, bruised, and finally speaking the same language.
The cottage wasn’t much to look at from the road. A squat little thing crouched beneath ivy and moss, its stones mottled with damp and age, shutters hanging like broken wings, the roofline sagging as though it had been holding its breath for decades. Drivers sped past without a glance. Forgettable. Unremarkable.
But when Benji saw it—tucked down a dirt track just beyond a nameless village where neighbors nodded politely but never pried—he froze. His voice caught mid-thought, his eyes softening, distant, as if some part of him had already stepped inside.
“This one,” he whispered. Reverent. “This feels right.”
Ethan didn’t argue. Not after everything that had already been said and laid bare—after ribs had healed, after confessions had been breathed into the quiet and swallowed, after masks had been stripped away for real. Not after weeks of laughter, arguments, tender touches, and the slow rebuilding of trust.
Signing the papers felt less like a transaction and more like a declaration. No IMF fallback. No hidden transmitters. No coded signals. Just a battered stone cottage and two men claiming it as theirs.
The rhythm of their days settled in like water carving stone.
Ethan woke with the sun, lungs burning as he ran the pine-thick hills surrounding the cottage, boots sinking into frost-matted mud, forest alive with birdsong and a silence heavier than any city street. He returned sweating, muscles straining, hair plastered to his forehead.
Benji was always awake by then—hair disheveled, socks mismatched, shirt slouching off one shoulder as if gravity had finally caught up with him. He rubbed at his eyes, muttering to himself, then spotted Ethan’s steaming mug of coffee waiting. Bitter. Dark. Exactly how he liked it.
He griped, of course, muttered curses softened by the reluctant curl of a smile—but drained every drop.
The cottage filled piece by piece, like lungs inhaling for the first time. Books leaned against walls until Benji caved and bought a shelf, shoving volumes in sideways and upside down. Ethan built a workbench in the corner, muttering at the clutter, then reinforced it when Benji wasn’t looking, careful, precise. A quilt arrived one afternoon, brown paper stamped with Julia’s looping handwriting. They didn’t speak of it, but when nights cut sharp, they reached for it without hesitation.
Evenings blurred into rituals. One night, Benji decided Ethan needed “proper shepherd’s pie lessons.” The potatoes boiled over, smoke rolled, the alarm shrieked. They coughed and laughed, bent double on the back porch, knees brushing and staying pressed together long after the plates had been cleared.
Wounds became domestic. Ethan scraped himself clearing gutters; Benji fussed with peroxide and gauze, scolding like a medic. Another day, Benji cut himself on a glass; Ethan bandaged him carefully, thumb lingering over the pulse in Benji’s wrist. Subtle touches became their language.
Friends drifted in. Luther brought groceries, eyebrows raised at the scorched pan, left knives and a nod that Ethan didn’t need translated. Ilsa came at dusk; Benji coaxed her to the fire with relentless charm, and she laughed at one of his dreadful jokes. Ethan hadn’t heard her laugh like that in years—it lingered in his chest long after she left.
At night, the cottage exhaled around them. Floorboards groaned, beams shifted, the wind teased the shutters until it seemed the house leaned closer. Beyond the hills, village lights winked out, darkness folding them in.
Benji always ended up on the back steps, eyes catching the stars. Ethan came silently, sitting close enough that shoulders brushed. Sometimes words weren’t necessary.
One night, thick with cicadas, Benji finally spoke. “You ever think we weren’t meant to have this? That… all this—quiet, safe, ours—is tempting fate?”
Ethan’s gaze didn’t waver. “All the time.”
Benji turned to him, voice cracking but determined. “The thing is… I trust it. I trust you. I don’t know why I should, after everything—the masks, the lies—but I never stopped. Not once.”
The words struck Ethan harder than any blow, tightening his chest. He reached for Benji’s hand, brushing fingers along worn wood before resting in the warmth of his palm. “I don’t deserve that,” he rasped.
Benji smiled, small, wry, steady. “Maybe not. But it’s yours anyway.”
The night pressed close. Cicadas droned like a heartbeat. Ethan leaned in, kissed him—not desperate, not hungry, but steady, certain. The kiss said what words never could: you’re safe, you’re home, and I’m not going anywhere.
Benji rested his forehead against Ethan’s, laughter trembling through him like sunlight through glass. “So… this is it? No codes. No Kittridge breathing down our necks. No lies?”
Ethan curled his hand at the back of Benji’s neck, grounding them. “Here,” he whispered. “Together.”
The words quivered, then rooted deep, immovable.
Benji’s eyes fluttered shut. Voice breaking, but full of truth, he said: “I love you, Ethan.”
Ethan’s chest split with the confession. Grip tightened, fierce, sure. “I love you too.”
Silence followed—not empty, but whole. The cottage smelled faintly of burnt potatoes, paper, and wood smoke. Books sagged on crooked shelves. Gutters leaned. The workbench sat cluttered. Imperfect. Alive.
And theirs.
For the first time, they didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to fight, didn’t have to run. The world might still be dangerous—but in their little stone sanctuary, love was enough.
RebeccaStevenTaylor Thu 04 Sep 2025 06:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
Kindra6216 Thu 04 Sep 2025 01:02PM UTC
Comment Actions