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Three days after Kashmir, three days after they save the world, Ilsa finally lets herself breathe. The first step outside of the makeshift medical tent Ethan has been in is a breath of fresh air and she can't help but wring her hands in front of her, unaccustomed to the feeling of them not touching him in some way--holding his hand, ghosting gentle fingertips over bruised and broken ribs, brushing his hair from his forehead, idly drawing his name in a dozen different languages along the inside of his wrist.
That tent, her time at his bedside, the murmured conversation between rounds of pain killers where he tells her about his childhood dog and she teases him that he’d like tea if he’d stop being so stubborn and just let her make it for him, those conversation where he touches her back, grips her hand and her wrist, reaches up for her face to trace fading yellowing bruises--they're all a microcosm of their own, a place where spy and agent and governments don't exist: they are just them, just Ethan and Ilsa.
But his ribs are on the mend and the rest of their team is anxious to be home and they need to leave, need to make decisions about the future--her future, their future. You're free, he'd told her one evening, their index fingers linked atop the blankets of his cot. The thought of it--freedom--had made something in her chest ache. And the terrifying answer is that she doesn't know what to do next.
So she steps outside of the bubble they've created for themselves, puts on the mask of Agent Faust, and disappears among the tiny city that is the Kashmir medical camp, weaving and bobbing in and out of the crowds and white coats where no one knows her. This is easy, this is what she knows. This is safe. Her feet carry her and carry her and then--
And then she senses someone tailing her, halting, stumbling steps and labored breathing and she knows it's him the same way she's always known where he is and what he's doing and how he's feeling--that stupid fucking thread connecting them, pulling them together. She slows her pace, ducks into the space between medical tents and stops at the outskirts of camp overlooking the mountain's basin.
"Julia is going to yell at both of us if she sees you up and around," she tells him, not bothering to turn around. "I told her I'd take care of you," she adds, voice dropping to a murmur, fingers wringing together nervously. She'd whispered it to the woman that first day after they'd brought Ethan back in, wanted to let the woman who had held Ethan's heart first know that she would care for it, guard it fiercely.
He shuffles to a stop at her side, shoulders brushing hers, arms pressed together, one of his feet nudging hers--always touching, always connected. Ethan Hunt, even with bruises and scrapes and blood stains on his skin, is beautiful. "Julia is the one who told me to go after you," he tells her, head turning to catch her eye.
She sucks in a breath at that, closes her eyes. "Ethan..."
He reaches for her, tangles their hands together and doesn't let go. "You got pretty spooked back there," he starts, threading their fingers together. "Wanna tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"
It's this moment, she thinks, that is sink or swim, fight or flight. She bites her lip. "Luther told me I should walk away from you. That I was one more worry for you to handle, a distraction. Because you care for me."
Ethan tenses beside her. "But you didn't walk away."
She shakes her head, closes her eyes and tries to take a deep breath through the emotions strangling her chest. "I don't think I can walk away from you again, Ethan. And that--that terrifies me."
"No one's asking you to walk away, Ilsa. Least of all me."
"I should," she whispers, eyes falling to the perfect way their fingers entwine and tries not to think about how much she wants to spend the foreseeable time exploring every bruise, scar, and knuckle. "I don't know if I can be trusted to make the right decisions when it comes to you." She huffs a laugh, self-deprecating, turning to face him, leaning against the railing and taking in the sight of him. Her free hand reaches out to brush back his hair, slides her fingers into his hair and against his scalp. "I'd choose you, every time."
"Why is that wrong?" he challenges, shuffling forward, tilting his head into her hand and reaching for her hip, thumb circling the patch of skin there. "I trust you to choose right when it matters, Ilsa. Why can't we choose each other--choose us?"
"You know why," she insists, can't bring herself to list the number of times she's broken protocol, can't tell him the number of times she's wanted to grab his hand and run away to their own corner of the world. "It's complicated. You, we, we’re compromised. And it will always be complicated."
"And if it wasn't? If it was easy, the easiest thing we've ever done? What then?"
And because it's been a week of thinking the world would end, of thinking she would never see another tomorrow, because she's spent three days at his bedside terrified for him, because of this, she tells him: "If it were easy," she sighs, folding herself against him, head tucking into the space between his neck and shoulder, arms sliding around his waist mindful of his ribs, lips brushing against the skin of his neck. "I could do this whenever I wanted you to hold me." Her hand slid down his chest, settling on his abdomen. "We'd burn our phones and run away, a little place of our own where only Benji and Luther and a select few could find us. Your books would mix in with mine, your coffee could sit next to my tea."
Her eyes sting at the clarity with which she can see that life of theirs. She feels his lips brush along the top of her head. "We'd have a dog, too," he adds, voice rumbling beneath her ear. She laughs and nods against his chest, turns away from the scenic view and hides her face against his chest.
For a moment, they live in that dream together—the dream of easy. It’s made all the more real with the feel of his arms around her, his lips brushing repeatedly and absentmindedly against her hair, his heart thumping beneath her ear.
His hands slide over her hips and back and neck, fingers weaving into her hair and each touch feels like an anchor grounding her to this moment, to him, to this shared dream of theirs.
But it’s not real. It’s not easy.
She pulls away, keeps her hands on his body—a habit she’ll have to retrain herself out of—and looks down, trying to regroup, trying to work up the will to walk away.
His fingers curve beneath her chin, lift her eyes to his and he doesn’t look pained, doesn’t look conflicted. He looks content, happy, certain.
“Ask me again,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at her, fingers tracing over her jawline to cup her face in his hand, thumb brushing the curve of her cheek.
She frowns. “What?”
“Ask me again.”
Her heart rockets up into her throat and she feels tears sting her eyes, emotions rushing to the surface in a sort of call-and-response that only Ethan Hunt can elicit within her. “Ethan,” she breathes, hand coming up to cover his, head turning to nuzzle against his palm. She breathes him in, lets her lips brush against the skin of his palm, and lets one more moment of bravery overtake her, perhaps the last one she has in her after the last few days.
“Come away with me.”
Ethan, bruised and battered but still standing, pulls her closer, hips flushed with his, cradling her against his body. And his eyes—all that intensity and focus usually reserved for missions and the end of the world—are focused on her. They’re not in that tent of theirs, but that feeling of a microcosm, the world whittling down to just the two of them, returns.
He leans forward, nose brushing against hers, and she lets out a shuddering, shaky breath, waiting. She can feel this breath on her lips, can feel the slight tremor of his hand against the small of her back.
“Yes,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to hers, eyes falling closed. “I’ll go with you.”
Ilsa has defused bombs and landmines and felt the kickback of guns that should have put her on her ass, but nothing has felt as adrenaline-inducing, overwhelming as Ethan Hunt’s lips on hers.
She pushes herself into the kiss fully, drags her hands up his body and softens the motion when he hisses into the kiss as she touches sensitive ribs, her arms twining around his shoulders, hands slipping into his hair and nails scratching lightly at his scalp. His mouth works hers over gently, slowly, hotly—each trace of his tongue over her lips, the roof of her mouth sets her blood surging.
“Ethan,” she whispers between kisses, hardly believing this moment is real. He squeezes her hips in response, ducks his head to press soft kisses to the curve of her jaw, up to her temple, over the shell of her ear.
He gathers her into his arms, breathes in the scent of her, strokes his hands across her back. “We can have easy, Ilsa,” he tells her, holding her close. “This—” He kisses the top of her head. “This is the easiest thing in the world.”
Ilsa stifles a noise somewhere in the back of her throat and presses closer, lets herself lean against him. After weeks, months, years of running, it feels good to finally stop, to let herself stand still against this infuriating, wonderful man and trust him. She knows what he means about this—them—being easy. Nothing feels more natural to her, more instinctual, than trusting him, loving him.
She can breathe again as she lifts her head from his chest, kisses his chin and his cheek and lifts onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, her tongue soothing the sting.
There are questions to be answered, she knows—what to do from here, where to go.
But now there’s a promise of tomorrow, of him and them, of easy.
And that’s more than enough for her.