Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Benji surprisingly found himself working alongside Ethan more after the Cobalt Crisis. Along with Brandt and Luther, sure. (Although it did take some time for him to get used to the latter. Benji was half-sure the beta was this close to shooting him during their first official mission in Romania due to him being so obviously starstruck which– Sue him, it's hard to be normal when you're working with The Phineas Phreak himself, okay? )

But Ethan? He wasn't complaining but it really came as a surprise how the guy seemed almost unavoidable post-Cobalt. It's not like they were joined at the hip, not necessarily. Less nine-times-out-of-ten, but six-times-out-of-ten was still a valid and above average statistic to be continuously working with one Ethan Hunt.

His cru– admiration , as he'd taken to calling it, didn't help matters. How in hell was he supposed to tuck it away as a Haha wasn't that a weird time, anyways, never gonna happen when he was constantly around the guy enough that his brain was screaming at him Make it happen make it happen make it happen–

“You're embarrassing,” was the voice that broke him out of his inner spiral. He raised his head to a familiar face, Agent Parker, holding out a cup of coffee; a to-go cup so obviously not from the sputtering coffee machine down at the communal kitchen that looked to be on its death nill– which, was really quite ironic for an organisation that seemed to run its agents on guilt, desperation and caffeine.

“Thank you,” Benji said as he took the offering, because he was raised by his mother to be polite and know his manners. 

“Atleast change your screen, Benji,” She replied, amused, pointing to his screen where– shit fuck, he was daydreaming in front of a picture of Agent Hunt– “Listen, I support you and all your romantic endeavours–” she continued teasing in a tone reminiscent of Love is Love , even as Benji frantically clicked at his screen to make it go away, “–but atleast have the decency to, well, pretend to hide it away like the rest of us.”

The beta wasn't really a recent addition to Benji's life. She'd worked in the cubicle next to him back when they were techies and they'd had a decent relationship, overall. Until she'd disappeared sometime around a year or so after their first meeting. Janet had informed him that she'd passed her field exam and was now working as an active field agent. 

His second encounter with her had been on his own mission as a field agent, his second overall, where she'd clapped him on the back with a grin, “Missed me that much, huh?” before laughing as he'd sputtered at the glass of Raksi offered by their host in Kathmandu.

There hadn't been much of a relationship aside from shared greetings in the office space or small talk. Until well, post-Kremlin, when office gossip about him having worked with Agent Hunt had rendered him in a weird period of feeling like a museum exhibit; chatters that would quieten as soon as he'd enter a room or new agents, greenies, asking him in hushed whispers how Agent Hunt was like. Agent Parker stumbling into his cubicle to complain loudly about alphas–specifically her latest mission leader had honestly been a welcome change. 

At present however, Benji just gave her a chastised look, equal parts embarrassed and defensive, “It's not like that.”

Agent Parker shrugged, clearly not believing him, “Sure, whatever. I'm just here to tell you that Janet's computer is malfunctioning again.”

Again? “I'm not tech support anymore.” Benji argued, even as he scooted his chair back to get up from his seat.

“She knows. She also said you're the only one she trusts to actually fix her computer.” Parker said. “ Only you. ” She emphasized, looking at him meaningfully.

Benji squinted, trying to decipher her tone before it finally clicked. “Wha–How–” He sputtered, “She's seventy. ” is what he settled on.

Agent Parker shrugged, teasing grin on her face, “And an omega who's clearly set her sights on her third husband–” 

The rest of her statement was, thankfully, interrupted by the appearance of one Ethan Hunt, leaning his head in with a charming smile.

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Agent Parker paused halfway through her statement and shut her mouth with a visible clack of her teeth. She was too well-trained to act visibly affected by the presence of the IMF golden boy himself, but Benji knew that look well enough. He'd laugh but he was self-aware enough to know he'd been on the same side too many times to count.

“Can I help you, Agent Hunt?” Benji said, before his eyes landed on the takeaway container from the Chinese place down the street that he'd once ranted to Ethan about. 

( The sonnets I could pen about their General Tso’s, Ethan, Benji had said while they'd been stranded in the rural Netherlands on a mission, almost moaning at his imagination even as his tongue had been coated in the chalky aftertaste of the cheap nutrient-dense protein bars, if only I'd have the words and talent to tell you.

Ethan had just smiled at him before replying, You're doing a good enough job now, Benji. )

Ethan entered the room, “We had plans for lunch but you didn't reply to my last text so..” lifting his hand holding the takeout bag in answer. 

Shit , Benji cursed internally, as he glanced at his phone to see that he indeed, had four different texts from Ethan inquiring about the timings for their lunch plans to a text confirming he'll be bringing it to Benji's office. Proper grammar and all, that fossil, he thought, ashamed at how endearing he found it.

“You must be Anaya Parker.” Ethan said and Benji looked up to find him now turned towards the other person in the room. Agent Parker didn't necessarily look shocked per say, but it was a close thing–which yeah, you didn't really expect Ethan Hunt to know your name; especially if you've never been on a mission or hell, even interacted with the guy before. Ethan nodded oblivious to it all, friendly as ever, “Benji talks about you.”

“He does?”

“I do?”

Ethan nodded again, impish smile on his face, “He does.”

Agent Parker made a swift exit not long after, telling Benji she'd let Janet know she'd have to make do without her favorite tech guy because he was out for lunch. She'd emphasized the word lunch in a way that implied that she would definitely be interrogating him about Agent Hunt later. 

Benji sighed as he sat down in his seat again, not even surprised as Ethan wordlessly slid a white container towards him. He didn't even need to open it to know what it contained but he did so anyway and almost sighed at the aroma of sticky spicy-sweet chicken. He didn't turn to the man in front of him, not wishing to give him the satisfaction of having gotten away with Benji's forgiveness even without an apology. 

Seriously, how had his life come to this?

________________

The answer may come as a shock to you–well, not really, if you consider the circus that had been leading up to it.

It had been about three months or so post-Kremlin when Ethan had shown up at his doorstep with a duffle and a smile. The Benji opening the door had looked and felt like shit. 

He’d just been back from an exfil in Guatemala; jet-lagged and exhausted, with hands covered in cheeto dust. So please, believe him when he says that he wasn't at all suited to be expecting an Ethan in what looked to be a sweaty tracksuit, looking like he'd stumbled right out from a page of Benji's wet dreams.

“Uhh,” is what he'd greeted Ethan with, adjusting his glasses with the back of his hand.

“Good to see you, Benji.” Ethan had said, nonplussed by his appearance or surprising lack of vocabulary, “Bad time?”

“No–Not at all, really. Come in.” He had said, motioning for him to enter, even as he dreaded the guy noticing his messy apartment. 

Later, over cheap Indian takeout and with some random reality show blaring on the telly– Love Island or something, he wasn't really sure– he’d learnt that Ethan had been on a mission in Glasgow and injured his left knee enough to be put on mandatory leave. The alpha, however, in his supreme excellency, had decided that the best thing to do was not to stay at the provided IMF housing, nursing his wounds or well, taking any steps to recover whatsoever, but to travel 400 miles to London to drop by Benji's flat because ?  

Well…

Benji didn't really have an answer, to be honest. Trying to follow the logic of one Ethan Hunt would render you insane at the best of times and Benji was, keyword, tired –he’d pulled a muscle hanging off a roof during the escape from a nasty looking goon and it was aching . So he was quite comfortable blaming his compliance on that instead of the butterflies in his stomach or the bees in his head muttering about being noticed by his crush.

Seriously, he was fine.

Chapter Text

Ethan was an enigma–okay well, that was quite redundant and frankly, glossed over the complexity of the man in its entirety but Benji kind of understood why many people were quick to attribute that specific label and just go on with their day. He'd argue about looking in deeper and understanding the man but, well, Ethan never really allowed people to come in close enough to ever look, did he?

“Rumors around the block say that he's a Prime.” Anaya spoke, poking at her pathetic excuse of a salad. 

Benji sighed, “Seriously?” 

Which was a fair argument considering the ‘Prime’ label was barely more than a pop-culture stereotype; Benji would dismiss it as a legend or an old-wives tale if it did not have actual science backing it up. Like seriously, a super-rare genetic mutation affecting only a fraction of the population giving them enhanced senses and greater pheromonal dominance; a veritable superpower–

Except.

Not really.

The Prime mutation i.e. Pheromonum Aberrations or Pheromonum Trisomy was a mutation affecting less than 0.05% of the world population, so somewhere around 1 in every 2000 individuals have a chance of ending up with that genetic lottery. Statistically speaking, this placed them somewhere in between albinism and heterochromia–so visualize that .

Technically, bare bones explanation: Extra chromosomal copy or structural chromosomal aberrations (changes to the chromosome structure by adding, deleting or substituting some parts) can lead to modified gene expression which in turn leads to individuals with heightened pheromonal sensitivity along with other heightened senses. On paper, well and good. In real life? Not so much.

Individuals with ‘Prime’ mutation have a harder time acclimating in society, especially when they burn through normal suppressants and require high-grade ones which are associated with larger risks of infertility, osteonecrosis, cancer–to name a few. 

It, of course, didn't keep them from being the fetishistic obsession of any and all romantic media for centuries. Husky feral Alpha leaders being tamed by their fated Omega partners–who were also, more often than not, Primes. 

Not to mention their ‘feral’ states–

“Hello?” Anaya waved a hand in front of his eyes, jolting him from his thoughts, “Earth to Benji?”

“I’m listening,” he lied, hiding his face in a bite of his burger. Agent Parker clearly wasn't buying it so he added on, “Besides, Ethan Hunt being a Prime doesn't affect his abilities at all. None of the mission reports mention him using any alpha commands which suggest any higher than the average pheromonal dominance soo…” His voice petered out at the raised eyebrow Anaya was giving him. 

“And you've read all his mission reports, haven't you?”

He knew she was clearly being sarcastic but he still had to bite back the almost instinctive Of course. It must've shown on his face because Agent Parker just shook her head in equal parts disbelief and amusement, “ Benji.. ”

Embarrassed and just a bit (a lot) humiliated, Benji tried switching the flow of the conversation with all the grace of a drunk gazelle on the highway, “Forget about all of that, tell me about Paris.”

Anaya raised an eyebrow, “What's there to talk about? It's Paris. Bad smell, good food and rude smokers.” She swiped a fry off his plate, ignoring his offended Hey , “It wasn't like I was there on a vacation. ” 

He nodded, listening in, “But you weren't alone though.” Seeing her narrow her eyes in suspicion, he leaned in, “See, I heard from the office grapevine–”

“–definitely Janet–” 

“–that you were on a mission with a certain Agent Choi. ” 

Predictably, Anaya stuttered at the mention of the alpha agent, “What the–How in the hell is she relevant to this conversation?”

Benji shrugged, “I mean. You had a lot to talk about the last time you were on a mission together.” 

He smiled as the conversation successfully diverted to Anaya ranting about the alpha she totally did not have a thing for. Which was good, because he did not need to think about the logistics of Ethan Hunt being a Prime, of all things. 

Also, in all seriousness? Both Agents were fooling no one. The alpha was practically courting the beta–halfway to the bonding at this point. Benji was betting on a proposal sometime next year– Seriously, he has atleast eighty bucks on the line.

________________

Ethan's appearance in the IMF headquarters, specifically Benji's office, wasn't quite out of the ordinary. He'd drop by for lunch if he was in the area and not out hiking or rock-climbing or whatever other fitness activity he did to maintain his frankly obscene body. Like Jesus Christ, what the hell man.

But he's quite concerned. Like when did the association of Oh Ethan's visiting Benji, nothing out of the ordinary somehow translate to Oh you need something from Ethan? Yeah, dude's probably in Benji's office.  

He didn't realise it when Agent Parker came by his office to drop off a document for Ethan specifically, or when Janet greeted him with a simple Oh Agent Hunt's in town with a polite but obviously forced smile. In his defence, those occurrences were quite vague and very easy to brush off.

No, the actual realisation came when he got a call from Brandt. He had half-wheezed out a Hello? , body still cramping from Ethan recounting his latest mission in Croatia involving seducing a Goat Whisperer of all things, when he was interrupted by a frustrated bark, “Is Agent Hunt in the room?”

“Uh, well, I am doing quite well. Thank you, Brandt, my frien–”

He could audibly hear Brandt rolling his eyes, “I don't have time for this, Benji, give Ethan the phone....please.” He added the last part, almost forced through his teeth like a toddler being made to apologise for their mess.

Benji looked towards Ethan who was frantically miming out a No with his hands, “Uhh, how are you so sure he's even he–”

“Statistically speaking, if the guy's not out on a mission he's at the agency, training and scaring the recruits because he has no life–or, as seen more recently, in your office.” Benji almost felt pity for Ethan as the omega continued, “I can also hear him whispering in the background so please give him the phone before he escapes out the vents.”

“Isn't that more of your MO?” Benji said, not waiting to hear his denial as he tossed the phone towards Ethan, grinning as the alpha winced at the high volume emanating from the speaker.

Ethan shot him a look of betrayal as he said a cheery, inoffensive Hello which instantly crumbled as Brandt reamed him out for some reason or the other. Benji didn't know for sure, but he was quite willing to bet it had something to do with him blowing up the latest baby of the tech department–a motorcycle that had been retrofitted with extendible reinforced cables that could stick to walls, allowing it to literally tightrope across skyscrapers.

(He'd heard Nicole casually mention over the shitty coffee in the breakroom, how some techies were quite literally plotting Ethan's murder. And reading up on the schematics for the bike, he'd been able to almost sympathize.)

…..

Ethan later apologized by showing up to the Tech department with ten boxes of novelty donuts from the patisserie halfway across the city. Still fresh. 

Which fuck, Benji had once taken a whole day off to travel to the shop and line for four hours to get their elusive ‘Chocolate Tira-Miss You’ and he still hadn't been able to get it. Four. Fucking. Hours. 

Anyways, Ethan was back to being The Darling. As usual. Because really, which other field agent fed the techies with hundreds of dollars worth of donuts as an apology? He was practically a Saint–or the most beloved devotee to the Hive Mind, most likely. 

And really, Benji would complain but he had been greeted with a white box of his own in his office. Freshly delivered and still with the faint blush pink lettering on the top, spelling out the name of the bakery. Opening it, he'd been greeted with the sight of four ‘Chocolate Tira-Miss You’s complete with a thin drizzle of gleaming caramel with a dusting of cocoa powder.

Well played, Ethan.

Chapter Text

Ethan was hanging off the side of a plane, specifically, an Airbus A400M –which yeah, okay, not the time, Benji –mid-flight because of course, he was. Dangling, really, like those monkeys in that one board game where you had to pull those sticks out while making sure none of the monkeys fell down–except in his case, it wasn't a plastic tree but a huge military aircraft weighing more than a hundred metric tonnes and the monkey in particular was one Ethan Hunt. Because of course!

The scene wasn't an anomaly in his life, which could be deemed concerning but Benji was currently too preoccupied with hacking into a European transport aircraft in order to save the life of his colleague and friend– which was quite a statement wasn't it–no, not the fucking time, Benji!

There was a lump in his throat, mud in his ears and sweat dripping down his forehead to just narrowly missing his eye as he frantically navigated the maze of computer systems, three distinctly different voices in his ear screaming at him to open the fucking door. 

Which he did, he'll have you know. Quite well, in fact. 

Okay, it did take one mishap but he was quite successful all things considered and the package was secured so he'd count that as a successful mission on his part.

…

Their way back was an economy flight with Benji lamenting his cramped legs– Seriously, they practically saved a shipment of what could potentially be Scarecrow toxin and this was all they could do? They deserved First Class, at the very least– when Ethan let out a soft groan as he shifted in his seat.

Benji turned towards the alpha to see him try to not so subtly pretend to be asleep to escape from the confrontation–which No way in hell was that happening. “I knew it!” He whispered, careful enough to not disrupt the rest of the passengers dozing on the 10+ hour flight.

Ethan tried pretending to be asleep but Benji knew better, knew him better. Ethan's arm was on his stomach–usually an innocuous gesture unless..

Benji gave that area a mean poke and Ethan inhaled a sharp breath. Knowing his jig was up, he murmured, voice low, “I'm fine, Benji–”

Benji gave him an unimpressed glare, which the alpha wasn't going to see anyways considering his eyes were closed, as he poked at his stomach again. And again. And again. 

He watched the man try his best not to squirm even as his stomach trembled in a mixture of what could be pain– The verdict of which was getting clearer by the second.

(The other possibility was, of course, that famed agent Ethan Hunt was ticklish. Which, if true, was intel worth its weight in atleast six Airbus A400Ms.)

A hand grabbed his, stopping it midway through its assault. Benji looked up to the alpha giving him an unamused glare. The beta calmly countered with a flat look of his own, even raising an eyebrow for added emphasis. And also to be a bitch.

This stand-off lasted a good minute before Ethan acquiesced with a sigh, “You're a stubborn one, Benji.”

“Says the one hiding a broken rib or two under his shirt.”

“It's not broken, just bruised.”

Benji sniffed, “I'll believe it when I see it, Ethan.”

The alpha gave him a grin, drawing one's eyes to the sharp points of his canines, “Is that an invitation to see me naked, Benji?”

Benji clamped his mouth shut, breathing out through his nose. He was quite glad for his–for the lack of a better term, beta-ness at the moment because he was sure were he to have a developed scent gland, everyone on their flight would've been given a front row seat to his enthusiasm for that idea. 

Whatever it may be, Benji merely shook his head, trying to steer the conversation back to the previous topic, “Invitation for me to throw you into the hospital wing, more like.” Clumsy or not, it got the job done. Barely. Or atleast, Benji was desperately telling himself it did.

Ethan shrugged, “You need to stop worrying, Benji, it's not the first time–”

There was a tone of dismissal which irked him. Grated at his nerves because how dare he, “Which just means, it's all the more reason to worry, Ethan. You'll get stress fractures and–”

“I'll be fine. ” The alpha repeated, like a broken clock. “Strong bones.” He said, tapping at his forehead, like a dork.

Was this guy actuall– “Strong bones? That's your excuse?” Benji rubbed at his face, viscerally aware his volume was gaining intensity the more this conversation continued. He could already see the sweet old lady sitting in front of him at 30D, adjusting her pillow in her seat to cover her ears. Which makes Benji extra embarrassed because she had been really quite nice about adjusting her seat when Benji’d asked for it earlier. 

“Well, I did grow up on a dairy farm.” The infuriating Agent said, by way of explanation. “Wisconsin.” He added, cheekily.

Benji physically geared himself to retort, the old lady in Row 30 be damned, before actually processing the titbit of information that had been thrown in his face, “Wha–” Benji physically shook his head reminiscent of Agent Parker hitting the photocopy machine in order to force it into compliance. 

He's a Wisconsin boy. A farm boy. A Wisconsin farm boy who grew up on a farm. Benji thought of himself to be better than to stereotype but all he could see now were images of a little baby Ethan running around in a denim jumpsuit and a big ol’ gaptooth and he was having a hard time not cooing–

Wait. 

That wasn't the point of this conversation. 

Benji finally looked properly at Ethan who was looking at him with a soft knowing smile. The beta huffed, “Why do I have a feeling you sharing this fact was just to get me to shut up.”

Ethan shrugged, smile still not leaving his face. “If it helps, I can also tell you that I was part of the kids choir. Braces and everything.” He said simply, like he hadn't just dropped a proverbial nuke on Benji's psyche. 

Benji's lip twitched even as he tried desperately to tell Ethan in what he hoped came across as serious instead of pure restraint, “I hope you know, you've just given me incentive to look through every public archive to find pictures of choir kid Ethan.”

Ethan, apparently satisfied, just snuggled back into his seat with a self-satisfied smile, “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Benji.”

________________

Visits from Agent Carter weren't uncommon. Perhaps not as frequent as Ethan who had created a veritable den of his own at Benji’s office but Benji was quite sure they were friends. 

Jane didn't announce her entrance as much as throw a white bundle of fabric down at Benji's desk, before doing the same to her own body at the chair on the other side of his table; albeit a bit more elegantly. A bit more demure, perhaps. 

Benji looked at her, taking her in. She appeared sharp and presentable, as always–albeit with a tiredness in her eyes that spoke of jet-lag and a stiff left shoulder, which Benji would assume came from a pulled muscle. The mission had been quite long–the details had been scant, even for the gossipy heads at IMF. All that had been clear was that it was in New York but other than that, zilch. Nada.

Benji unraveled what looked now to be one of those touristy souvenir T-shirts with the words ‘I heart NY’ emblazoned across the chest. He gave her an exasperated smile. Truly, it was so cliche, it was almost impressi– Wait, is that fucking embroidery!?

Benji ran his fingers over the raised texture of what he'd assumed to be some cheap puff print, only to meet actually genuine high quality embroidery. He raised a half-baffled look over at Jane only to be met with a simple self-satisfied smile. “You asked for a souvenir.” She said simply, answering Benji's unasked but loud question.

Benji shook his head, “Welcome back, Jane.” Stuffing the T-shirt in a random drawer of his table– which he was definitely taking home because weird print or no, the fabric was ridiculously soft to touch– he turned fully towards Jane, “Lunch?”

…….

“I heard Chef Adebayo quit.” Jane said, holding her takeout container in one hand while massaging her sore left shoulder with the other. 

Benji nodded, “Doom.” He said by way of explanation.

“It's still going?” Jane half-scoffed in disbelief, “That’s the fourth guy in eight months.” 

“Five, actually.”

(For context, the tech department had a long-standing unofficial competition–or team-bonding activity, whatever you wished to call it–to run Doom on each and every cafeteria/breakroom appliance. It had as of yet, caused atleast five different chefs to quit or take early retirement. He'd wonder why the upper management weren't interfering but truthfully speaking, unless things were going absolutely apocalyptic–like someone accidentally engineering Skynet or something–they didn't really bother.)

Benji shrugged. He wasn't quite surprised, “It seems Chef Lakshminarayan was the only one who could've handled it.”

“You're just saying it because you're biased, Benji.” Jane smiled, shaking her head.

“Of course I am.” And Benji was, okay? That woman could make a damn good biryani. Seriously, his mouth was watering imagining the scent alon– oh, about that. “That reminds me, How're things on Scentr ?” 

Scentr, the new controversial dating app on the market. Completely anonymous with no pictures, no secondary gender. Just you and whatever flirtation you can build up over text. 

The marketing talked about promoting connections without the boundaries imposed by social expectations on one's gender, which specifically center one's scent or lack thereof–which explained the name. Ah, Irony . 

Benji just thought it all seemed like a bad idea, to be quite honest, but he was a supportive friend and he'd support any decisions Jane would make, especially ones involving her putting herself back into the dating market. 

(Granted it had been a drunken decision after two many shots and Jane had sworn to delete the app multiple times but if a weak will is what led to his friend being happy, then he'd gladly take it.)

The woman in question, however, let out a deep sigh, body tensing ever so slightly. 

Benji furrowed his eyebrows. Last he'd heard, Jane had been chatting with a lovely lady from Sweden. Before he'd had a chance to ask anything, however, Agent Parker stormed into his cubicle–well, stormed was too harsh, it would be better to say, she walked briskly in a manner that would be concerning to anyone with a passing sense of awareness.

She closed the door behind her, before practically slamming her hands on the table, “The CIA is shutting us down.”

Well, fuck.

Chapter Text

Benji spent his days in a weird haze. The CIA had no dearth of resources so the workload was remarkably lighter than the IMF. So he'd do his daily work–which amounted to just a bit more than the colleagues at his department but never to his full capabilities because they weren't paying him enough for that. 

(So truthfully speaking, most of his time was figuring out ways to discreetly slack off and play Halo or Call of Duty.)

And he'd get away with it, because the CIA was remarkably similar in its treatment of betas–overlooked, ignored or disregarded. Same words, just different contexts. 

Ironic, really, how it boasted about utilising omegas and giving them high ranks and amenities–and yet, in the same breath, discriminating against the other subgender. 

(Not to mention, Omega harassment wasn't eradicated. Just something more likely to be hidden. Engaged in by people with the resources to silence any voices. Not the norm, but perhaps a privilege? Who could say, really? )

But in many ways, the CIA was an upgrade: More space. More room. Better snacks in the breakroom. Hell, it has a coffee machine that actually works. What're the odds?

(No Doom experiments, though. Benji rarely even saw Nicole, for that. Hell, no Janet as well, which sucked but she was happily retired so he couldn't really fault her for that one.)

But that didn't matter right now. What mattered is that he'd just won two tickets to Turandot playing at the Vienna Opera House. Had he entered the raffle? Who knows? The last few months have honestly been a haze so he wasn't sure even if he had. 

The phone rang. Benji knew the reason behind the call before he'd even answered but the words still pulled a wince out of him. 

…

See, he hadn't been quite so truthful about his circumstances, really.

Six Months ago, the CIA figuratively and somewhat literally swallowed up the IMF. Director Alan Hunley was practically breathing down everyone's necks because well: Ethan Hunt had gone rogue. 

And Benji was being interrogated about it. Every single week.

Lying to the polygraph had gotten dull. More frustrating than terrifying. Perhaps even worse was this atmosphere of hopelessness when Director Hunley would regurgitate the same questions again and again and again. If insanity was doing the same thing again and again, then what else would you call it?

Was it merely professional duty or alpha pride?, Benji would wonder, as Alan Hunley would repeat the same questions behind gritted teeth. 

“Have you been in any contact with ex-Agent Ethan Hunt, in any period of time since our last conversation?”

There would be a faint echo of a growl each time Benji answered No. A creeping sense that he was inching ever closer to using an Alphan command. And Benji couldn't tense up without triggering the faulty machine so he'd just…bear with it.

See, they had all gone through the standard protocol of being interrogated about Ethan Hunt–Alphan commands and all. A grueling five hour interrogation–

Sweat dripping down his brow, a nauseating mix of hormones and pheromones–the smell of leather, smoke and sticky-sweet honey–that he couldn't directly recognise and yet his body reacted regardless–revolted, even–bile swirled in his stomach and traveled up his throat–this person wasn't his Alpha, he wasn't Pack–No no no–his tongue betraying him and vomiting words he wasn't willing to–

But Benji had made it out alive. A bit shaken up. But he managed. 

His only solace had been that he hadn't been in any contact with Ethan. He had no knowledge aside from knowing that the guy grew up as a choir kid or that there was a high possibility he was ticklish–precious to him, yes, but wholly useless to the CIA.

The last one to have been in contact with Ethan had been Brandt. His interrogation had lasted double the amount of Benji's and yet, nothing. 

(A shudder still rushed down his body at the thought of Brandt being subjected to the same. Brandt was an omega. Someone with a more sensitive nose and senses. Benji knew he was strong but dear God, ten hours? Hardened criminals broke down after eight– Jesus fucking Christ– )

The explanation for this had been simple: Memory Manipulation. Certain Alphan commands could induce gaps in memory, especially in omega minds and Ethan would know well enough that being the last one to have been in contact, Brandt was going to be the first priority for interrogation.

Now, technically speaking, Could Alphan commands be overridden by a more dominant Alpha in the hierarchy? Well, yes, but if the rumors about Ethan being a Prime were true then well…

(Yes, It had been a gamble. A truly, stupid, moronic gamble, in retrospect. But when had any of their missions been anything but?)

Director Hunley knew–or suspected, more likely. But to an alpha's wounded pride, both concepts seemed quite indistinguishable, didn't they? 

The worst part was perhaps that he couldn't really do anything about it. Too many Alphan interrogations and that would put them in direct violation of the International Human Rights Law. And while Benji didn't delude himself into thinking the CIA had any qualms about violating pesky international laws in the name of American interest, there were too many eyes on them at the moment, to actively get away with it. 

Which brought them to the compromise: Weekly Polygraph Tests. Or as Benji would like to call them: Management Sanctioned Harassment.

Brandt had decided early on to finagle his way into the room each time there had been an interrogation; citing a long forgotten clause in some random paragraph in the Protocol regarding these procedures with such calm confidence that even Benji had bought it. 

It was only later, about two months into being subjected to this weekly hell, when the beta agent interrogating him had gotten hostile, resulting him in almost tripping up and triggering a lie leading to Brandt growling at her–a vicious clack of teeth that had startled even Benji–until she'd backtracked immediately, that Benji had realised: 

Brandt being there wasn't mere protocol; it was insurance.

________________

The tickets to the Vienna Opera hadn't just been a breath of fresh air, they were a needed lifeline. Benji needed to get away. And not just because a part of him hoped that Eth–

Let's not go there. 

Regardless, Benji now had two tickets to Turandot. Keyword, Two . 

It had been a split second decision to email Jane. Maybe impulsive. Maybe unnecessary. But a part of him had missed her. 

…..

Listening to Ethan's voice in his ear on the subway–the gravelly tone letting out the words Welcome to Vienna, Benji. Miss me? had almost been enough to do him in. 

The relief of knowing Ethan was there had overridden any and all thoughts of him winning the opera tickets. Well, almost.

“I didn't win those opera tickets, did I?”

He could almost hear the smile on Ethan's face and it made his heart ache to know he wasn't there to see it, “No, I'm afraid not.” 

…..

Actually scratch whatever he'd said before. Ethan Hunt was an infuriating mess of an Alpha and Benji was getting tired of his self-sacrificial bullshit because what was he even saying? 

“Tell the truth, Benji, that you came to Vienna 

believing you won two tickets to the opera. I attempted to recruit you into assassinating the 

Chancellor–” he'd said, voice sincere because he really believed that, didn't he? 

“ That's not the truth– ”

Ethan cut him off, voice firm, “They’ll go easier on you if you tell them what they want to hear.” 

There was anger building, simmering underneath his skin but above all that, a sadness; a desperation to not lose Ethan again. Please, don't send me away. Please, I just got you back. And all that came out of his mouth was a plea, something soft, “Ethan,” he swallowed, “Atleast tell me what's going on here.” 

Because he needed that. Needed the explanation–just something to cling to. He couldn't go another six months, not knowing what was going on. What Ethan was up to. 

And thankfully, Ethan did. 

The explanation didn't help. Rather, it amplified the anger. Because what Ethan was describing was a suicide mission, a foolhardy quest. Fuck everything else, this could–and would get him killed if he went about it alone.

“Ethan, This is what I signed up for.” he argued, a final plea, “Let me help you find him.” 

“That's why I brought you here, in the first place and look what happened,” Ethan replied, voice mounting in frustration. And was he really blaming Benji–

“I can't protect you. That's why I need you to leave.”

Oh. 

Really?

Was Benji so useless as a teammate that he'd be nothing more than a liability? Was he reduced to just that? A mere beta? Something to be protected? Something to be coddled? Tucked away in a basement or a store room with a laptop and an earpiece?

Had he not passed his Field exam with flying colors? Had he not been lying to the fucking CIA for the past six months with the threat of treason a knife point at his throat? The blood has welled and yet he'd continued, hadn't he? Choking, gasping, borderline suffocating at the worry about Ethan. The bone-deep loneliness that had gripped his heart every time he checked his personal phone for a notification, or when his watch had been the one to remind him it was time for lunch, instead of a pesky alpha showing up with takeout and sitting at his office like he belonged. 

But he'd still continued, hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

He'd known he wasn't leaving as soon as the voice of Ethan had filtered in through the glasses; trickled down his ears to settle in his heart. Breathing for the first time in months, there was no way Benji was going to leave. Nope, not again. 

“That's not your decision to make, Ethan!” He could see Ethan visibly surprised at his outburst, as if the guy hadn't brought it upon himself, “I'm a Field Agent. I know the risks. More than that, I'm your friend. ” He emphasized, hoping to embed the word into Ethan's cranium by the sheer force of his voice alone. He didn't care what it meant to Ethan but by God was he going to make the man understand what it meant to Benji . “No matter what I tell the polygraph, every week.” He spat the word polygraph like a slur.

“And you called me. Because you needed my help.” Benji pointed out, still fuming, “And you still do. So I'm staying.” He said, trying to calm his voice, “And that's all we're going to say on that.”

Ethan’s voice was soft. Perhaps a bit taken back as he acquiesced, “Okay.” Which Good. 

Benji wasn't scared of him trying to force him into compliance. Alpha glare or not, because he knew that Ethan knew, he'd find his way back regardless. 

“Good.” Benji said, feeling a bit awkward now that the fight has resolved itself without much of the complications his body was preparing for. He nodded his head, “Where do we start?”

“Ilsa.” Ethan said, gesturing to the screen behind him.

Benji was about to retort but his reply was halted by the sound of footsteps above their head and rattling near the door.

Chapter Text

Loss was a haunting thing. It trailed behind you like a stray cat that you fed once and refused to leave, winding its body between your legs such that you didn't want to leave it behind. 

Her brother had told Jane once, as a child, that the last sense to go before you were dying was your hearing. She'd scoffed before trying to steal the marshmallows out of his cereal. 

(Benji reminded her of him–both awkward nerdy men, with a love of cheesy shooters and ironically enough, classical music.)

Jane wondered sometimes, on those nights when the thoughts buzzed in your head louder than the cicadas in the Ohio summer, if the last thing he'd heard before he'd died that night at the crash had been the sound of the glass breaking, the tires screeching as their father had tried desperately to swerve and avoid the oncoming truck only for the two cars to still meet in a collision, leaving Jane as the only survivor.

She wanted to believe that he died sleeping in the backseat, headphones tucked in his ears. That he passed before he could've even recognised the impact. 

Now, walking the steps to the Opera House, Jane wondered if the music she was about to listen to was also the last thing he'd ever heard that night. 

Trevor, on the other hand, hated classical music. It's the music of snobs, he'd once proclaimed while Benji had sputtered, pulling out an argument which had devolved into the beta forcing Trevor to listen to his playlist of his favorites. Sitting in that dingy diner, somewhere in the middle of San Francisco, it had been the first time in years that she'd listened to any classical music at all. 

And it has been beautiful. Jane still couldn't trust herself to listen to it alone. Not without breaking down. Which is why when she'd seen Benji's email in her inbox, she'd booked a ticket to Vienna the same evening. Perhaps it was a celebration of her brother's memory. Or perhaps it was just her searching for comfort in a meaningless venture. 

Regardless, the fact remained that her brother, if he was alive, would've absolutely given her shit for it. And maybe that was love, wasn't it?

She paused for a moment, overtaken by emotion and hiding it under the guise of fixing her navy dress. Her hands trailed as she checked for the knives hidden underneath, out of habit.

Someone walked by her and Jane was hit with a familiar whiff of citrus and coconut before it was covered by an overwhelmingly artificial floral scent. She turned around but all she could see were the rest of the patrons, all walking towards the entrance, their scents mingling together in a cocktail that screamed Opulence. 

It almost was enough to give her a headache, even beyond the mandatory suppressants demanded by the Opera House. 

________________

Looking towards the woman hiding in the Chinese tower set-piece with her rifle aimed at the Chancellor of Austria as she rapidly walked the winding steps, Jane was hit with the sight of Ethan Hunt tussling with what looked to be a man almost twice his size over the theatre lights. Dear lord, Benji, just couldn't stay away, could you.

Jane's initial assumption on seeing the empty seat next to her had been of doubt, considering she'd caught a trail of Benji's scent while walking up the steps. 

Contrary to popular belief, betas had a more distinguishable scent than any other designation on suppressants–atleast, to noses like hers. Muted, yes, but they weren't drowned out by the artificial blanket scent that remained as a result of the suppressants. The artificial scents were quite easy to tune out and you needed to, especially if you wanted to function without going into constant sensory overstimulation.

It was remarkably easy to pick out Benji's scent, even amongst the rest of the betas. It was warm, scattered with a hint of cinnamon. There were perhaps a few more complex notes she wasn't aware of; but enough for her to notice. 

Following his scent had led her to pick up Hunt's scent because Of course he was there as well, which led to her now, gazing up at two different assassins clearly trying to take out the Austrian Head of State. Her steps were brisk as she tried to figure out a way to pass undetected only for the Third Act Aria to commence.

Jane watched, helpless, as the shots rang out in the Opera, hitting the Chancellor–thankfully in the shoulder–only to be drowned out by the triumphant echo of Nessun Dorma. 

Jane tried pursuing the woman as she escaped out the booth, she followed the trail of the golden yellow dress before she felt herself be yanked into an alcove with a hand over her mouth. “You shouldn't be here,” the voice said. It was familiar–the tone, the intonation and yet, the British accent was throwing her off.

Jane looked at the woman, beautiful and ethereal like the epitome of the descriptions of omegas in literature. Hazel eyes and light brown hair. And yet, the woman before here was distinctly an Alpha, the sharpness of her features enhanced by her pheromones, even hidden underneath the thick layer of artificial lavender that they were; she could pick out the smell of citrus and coconut mixing in like a pina colada and oh –her eyes widened as she was hit with another recognition. 

( Do you think love is quite foolish, then? She'd asked Rebecca, who'd taken fencing lessons as a kid, who had a colleague named Victor that she'd hated and who was quite particular about her lipstick.

I think so. I believe love can make you do foolish things. Like sending someone you had been messaging for only six months, a handkerchief saturated in your scent because she'd made a joke about courting gestures. What about you, Eliza? she'd asked, using the fake name Jane had signed up with. 

I don't know but, she'd ventured. Typing and retyping the same message for quite some time–It had felt preposterous to even consider someone else after Trevor. Something akin to betrayal. 

And yet her fingers had hit send, I think the world would be quite lacking without us fools.

Jane had switched her phone off, not wishing to engage with the aftermath. It hadn't been a confession, not quite. And truth be told, Jane wasn't even sure she was in love but for the first time in years, since Trevor, she had felt herself want .

Perhaps it was easier when it didn't have a face. When the betrayal took the form of a tropical summer scent with a deep raspy voice. It was easier, yes. Easier to pretend the Trevor in her room was looking at her in judgement for being dumb or desperate enough to pursue the gimmick of a dating app, instead of betrayal.)

The handkerchief that remained in the drawer near her bed, soaked with the scent of the woman she has been messaging on Scentr for a year and a half. 

The same woman who had ghosted her nine months ago. 

The same woman who now stood before her, having carried out an assassination attempt on the Chancellor of Austria. 

Perhaps Rebecca–if that even was her name–could see the recognition dawning on her face because she pressed her hand down even further, tucking them in further amidst the red curtains, “ Please, ” her voice had pleaded, “Go back. You don't know what you're getting into.” 

And then, footsteps. Before she knew it, the woman had escaped out the steps leading to the second floor from the alcove, leaving Jane reeling, with the punch of coconut being the only indication she hadn't dreamt up any of it. 

Jane scrambled to dodge the guards that swarmed the theatre in the aftermath, trying to mingle in the throng of guests panicking and escaping amidst the pandemonium. I should leave, she told herself, I should really leave, right now. Pretend nothing happened. 

Only she saw Benji, stumble out from somewhere on the third floor with a frantic look on his face and the smell of blood and gunpowder on him. And there was a split-second where she had the image of her brother; blood-soaked and awake, looking at her from the wreckage of their upturned car. 

And all Jane could do was curse and follow him outside. 

….

Jane never liked car-chases very much, especially not ones where the car she was tailing also had others doing the same thing. Cursing her luck, she turned her bike into a random alley, hoping not to attract attention from whatever hostiles Benji and Ethan had encountered. 

Just as she was turning, the car door opening caught her eye and she was assaulted with the same citrusy floral scent. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rebecca fall off the side of the road in a heap. They met eyes for a brief moment as Jane passed her by, turning into another alley to rejoin the main road and continuing on to tail the BMW that Benji was driving. She wondered if the resignation in the woman's eyes came from regret over the assassination attempt or the failure to see it through.

….

Jane lost sight of the BMW somewhere near the river canal as Benji maneuvered into a tiny alley near the river. Ditching her bike, she made way into the alley to find the abandoned BMW, ridden with bullet holes. Knowing they were nearby, Jane opted to trust her nose on this one and follow the faint trail of cinnamon to a barge docked by the side with an already open hatch. 

Just as she was fiddling around, trying to figure out the mechanism to unlock the safehouse mechanism, she was greeted with the cold metal tip to her head. 

Hands in the air in obvious surrender, she turned to meet Ethan, with a gun to her head, and a gawking Benji. “ Jane ?” He muttered, as if he hadn't been the one to email her the ticket in the first place. 

“Evening, boys.” She replied. Turning to Benji, “You stood me up.”

Ethan turned to Benji, incredulous, “You invited her?”

“Well, I wasn't quite aware it was you, was I?” Benji defended. 

Sensing an opening, Jane disarmed Ethan of his gun within seconds. Both men tensed with Benji reaching for what she assumed was his own weapon, as she turned to them with the gun, only to release the magazine and swiftly proceeding to disassemble it. 

Dropping the pieces of the now disassembled weapon to the floor, she smiled, knowing that the only reason she'd been able to do that had been because Ethan had allowed her to. A show of trust, perhaps, or a test. 

Regardless, Ethan's arms had untensed and Benji had sighed in relief. 

________________

Sitting down in the safehouse with Ethan giving her the rundown, she'd come to a conclusion that she was coming along with the two men. The screen behind her displayed Rebecc–or well, Ilsa's face. 

Ilsa Faust. Ex-MI6. And someone now working under a shadowy organisation named the Syndicate–a far cry from the financial consultant the woman had portrayed herself as.

Towards the end of the briefing, Benji had turned towards her, mouth opening to perhaps tell her to leave. To go along to headquarters with the information and give it to Brandt, perhaps. Regardless, she'd cut him off before he'd had a chance, “I’m coming along.” She'd uttered, a finality to her statement. 

Ethan, on the other hand, hadn't said anything, merely observing her with a long thoughtful look on his face. His eyes had moved, back and forth, from the screen towards her, analysing. His nostrils flared in what Jane had come to recognise was him scenting her. 

Jane gave him a betrayed look only for him to tilt his head, as if asking her, What is the reason, exactly? 

Jane swallowed, feeling defensive. “It’s personal.” She'd muttered, not backing down even as the words had felt like choking her tongue as she'd uttered them. 

And then, nothing more. Ethan nodded as if that was enough explanation for him and Benji had looked confused and a bit exasperated at the exchange, muttering something under his breath before asking Ethan how they planned to even find the woman in the first place.

Chapter Text

“Omega?” Jane looked at the datafile on the screen suspiciously as Benji connected the USB to his laptop, skimming through its contexts. 

“What's the issue?” He asked, distracted.

“No, that's–” she cut herself off, thinking, debating. Had she been mistaken in the Opera house–No, she hadn't. The handkerchief, it was proof, then why–

“What is it?” Ethan asked, now turned towards her.

“She's not an omega.” 

Benji hummed from his seat, “Nothing out of the ordinary. Plenty of betas–”

“Not a beta either.” 

That made both men pause, turning to look at her. “Are you sure?” Ethan was the one to ask.

Jane gave him a flat look, pointed towards her nose, as if daring him to question her. 

“But why would an alpha pretend to be an omega?” Benji asked, hands paused on the keyboard.

And that was the question of the hour, wasn't it?

________________

Walking the sun-baked road in the hot humid weather of Casablanca, the co-ordinates led the trio to a small door, nestled amidst mud-brick walls with a piece of paper attached in front. Ethan looked towards her for confirmation as if the lipstick stain hadn't been proof enough already.

Jane nodded anyway.

They step inside to find a surprisingly modern villa, a veritable oasis complete with an infinity pool. A woman's head emerged from the water as they walked towards it. Jane swallowed as she recognised the face, now wearing a skimpy black bikini, water droplets dripping down a toned body. 

She could see the same recognition reflected in those eyes even as they turned away, ignoring her to address Ethan instead, taking the towel he held out, “Now what brings you all to Casablanca?” Ilsa asked with a coy smile as Ethan held up the lipstick in answer. 

Turning towards Benji to avoid looking at the flirtation before her, she could see him intake a sharp breath of his own. Atleast she wasn't alone in her suffering.

________________

“His name is Solomon Lane.” Ilsa began, “He created the Syndicate.” Jane watched her from her position on the sofa, sitting near the window overlooking the pool. Benji stood by, looking outside.

“Where does he come from?” Ethan asked. 

“He’s former British Intelligence.” She muttered. 

“Just like you, then.” Jane couldn't help blurting out, tone pointed. Accusatory, even. 

Ilsa didn't turn, merely nodded in agreement and Jane grit her teeth. Nothing. Couldn't even turn her head a few degrees to face her to answer. Then is that it? Was it all that it was? A flirtation? An objective? A mission? Another avenue to infiltrate the IMF before she'd decided to move onto better pastures?

Ilsa explained how she was sent undercover to earn Lane’s trust and had been so for the past two years. She explained the ledger and the facility it was hidden under. The discussion continued as the projector was set up and throughout it all, Jane remained mostly silent, parsing through Faust’s scent, searching for any and all indication of a lie. 

Ethan and Benji would subtly look towards her for confirmation before going back to the conversation as they discussed a seemingly impossible vault to break into. 

“And there's no other way into the computer lab?” Ethan asked, skeptical.

“No other way in.” Faust stated, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Jane.

“Air shaft?” He walked towards Benji, standing near him. Jane wondered if it was intentional or something more sub-conscious– instinctual, perhaps– the way he seemed to seek Benji out.

“Six inch diameter pipe.”

“Foundation?” Benji ventured.

“Twelve feet of concrete, top and bottom.”

The two men looked at each other, as if in unspoken agreement, before speaking together like a long-married couple, “Electric conduit.”

Jane couldn't help rolling her eyes at the display, force of habit making her look towards Ilsa, like she did with Agent Parker or even Brandt, in commiseration. They even shared a small smile before recognition flooded in again and Jane turned away, towards the projector screen. 

“Bottom line is that there’s no way into that terminal unless your profile is pre-installed in the security system.” The woman continued to explain, as if to fill in the gaps of the awkward silence. 

________________

Ilsa remained seated in the long veranda, quiet in long contemplation as she looked over at the sea beyond. “Do you ever wish you didn’t know 

the things we know?” She spoke, without turning back. 

Jane paused in her footsteps, “No,” She answered, making her way to sit beside Ilsa, looking out at the sea as well, “Not anymore.” 

Ilsa shook her head, “I figure Ethan has two and half minutes to make the switch. The only way to conserve–”

“Why are you pretending to be an omega?” Jane interrupted her, getting straight to the point. The woman looked taken aback, turning in her seat to face Jane who now wouldn't meet her eyes.

Oddly enough, the woman didn't look surprised that Jane would know. As if she hadn't slept with her scent-soaked fabric for the better part of nine months, seeking it out for comfort and yet hating herself for it in the aftermath.

No, the woman looked more resigned at the knowledge than anything. Sighing, she answered, “I have my reasons.”

The words left a bitter taste on her tongue that Jane struggled to swallow. A year and a half and she never knew the woman, did she? Or perhaps, she did. Because the woman in front of her was British and yet clearly had Swedish features. Her coworker hadn't been Victor but Vinter; snapping bones instead of pens. And she had been particular about her lipstick, only because it had contained information her boss had killed countless innocents for. 

Maybe, that was it. Half-truths. Jane had only ever been worthy of half of the woman in front of her. There was a voice whispering in her ear how she'd probably deserved it. And Jane couldn't find it herself to argue back. 

There are a thousand further questions that she could ask. And a million more answers that would disappoint. Jane wasn't sure if she was willing to handle any of them at the moment. Because right now, there was a mission to complete. Right now, Jane couldn't afford to compromise herself; the lives of Benji and Ethan depended upon the plan going smoothly tomorrow. 

And yet, there was something she felt she had to ask, crawling underneath her skin as it threatened to burst out at any moment. A persistent itch. “Just one more question,” she muttered as she made to get up, “Was any of it ever real?”

No answer. 

Jane didn't scoff nor give any indication of a response. Silence could be just as enough of an answer as a scream. 

A hand stopped her in her tracks, a hoarse voice that spoke low. Something she would've missed had her ears not been seeking out the answer like a parched traveled lost in the desert, “More than you'd know.” Ilsa still didn't look at her as she released Jane's arm, merely gazing at the sea. 

No bitter note tinged the air. And despite everything, Jane felt herself wanting oh so desperately to believe . 

…..

Jane was an idiot to ever assume she could trust the alpha. Because where had that landed them? An incapacitated Ethan and an unconscious Benji.

Faust had muttered a Sorry as she'd knocked out Jane but what use was a mere apology in the face of betrayal, really? And perhaps even worse, was the humiliation. Because she had been the one to seek it out, hadn't she? 

The only solace that Jane had was that she'd atleast injured the woman as well, a weak stab to her left shoulder before she'd been electrocuted. 

The wound was too small for the enormity of the hurt, she knew. But Jane was satisfied in knowing that atleast it was hers .

Chapter Text

Ethan's life was a random assortment of gambles and chances; A veritable dice game that he usually won by counting cards–which is to say, there were rules, yes, just that nobody knew which ones. Everything mattered in that nothing ever truly mattered.  

As a young boy, he'd been the shortest in his group. A late bloomer. His choir loved him because he could sing soprano while his peers had graduated to tenors or bass. Everyone had assumed he'd present as an omega. Even himself. 

His Pa had proclaimed he'd be a strong omega, just like himself. His Ma, also an omega, had told him to be an alpha, instead, citing the safety and protection that came with it. As if he had any control over it at all. 

But she needn't have worried, really. Because one blistering Wisconsin summer, when even the mosquitoes had quietened down and there had been no sound, he'd presented as an alpha. With the blood of a man on his hands, he'd presented as an Alpha. 

His first kill, at the age of thirteen. 

The police report had deemed it a stress-induced precocious presentation. An act of self-defense. The man's face had been unrecognisable, beaten to a pulp–resembling a cut open pomegranate more than a human body–as he'd been dragged away. Ethan didn't know how he'd broken in or when, all he'd seen was the man standing over the struggling body of his mother and it had all been a blur after that. 

There hadn't been any charges because well, he’d been a young, white alpha in the rural midwest. A boy with a promising future. 

In certain individuals the inherited gene lies dormant. Can remain so their whole life until expressed under conditions of extreme stress, the Doctor had explained, smiling kindly, Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Hunt, your boy is a Prime.

The doctor meant it as a fact to be celebrated but to Ethan, it had felt like damnation. All his life, his Pa and Ma had told him to be wary of alphas and their ways. How they could hurt you. How they could destroy everything you could have in a single second. How they could make you a prisoner in your own flesh. 

Their boy would be fine. He was an Alpha now, the strongest one there could be. 

But he could never forget the look in their eyes. The haunted stare that had made Ethan want to choke on his own heartbeat.

…..

The IMF was a leash. A suffocating one but a necessary one nonetheless. He'd take being hopped up on countless drugs until his liver gave out. Until he'd choked on his own foaming mouth over the possibility of doing it again. 

Because that wasn't merely killing, was it? Blood washed away quite easily but how do you wash away the knowledge that you beat someone to such a pulp that it desecrated the integrity of the human body itself? 

He'd pay the penance of his existence with every mission he'd complete, miniscule it may be, even as every failure, every lost comrade added to the tally of his sins. He'd still do it. 

Because the other scenario, the thought of any of them–Luther, Brandt, Benji–Dear God, Benji looking at him with those eyes–

________________

Ilsa betraying them hadn't really been a surprise. Not really. Ethan had known, even before he'd pocketed the lipstick that they'd all been walking into Lane's machinations. He'd been expecting a knife to his throat or a bullet to his head and yet he'd played along.

He recognised the desperation in her eyes as she'd laid down the details. Honeyed words and straightforward plans hidden behind the veneer of a confident smile. A femme fatale with an executioner’s blade hanging over her head. The look of a cornered animal with nowhere to run. 

He'd never trusted her, truly. But he'd followed along because he'd seen the same look reflected in his bathroom mirror more than a decade ago as he'd washed off the blood in the sink.

His nose had dulled, after years of suppressant misuse, but it was still that of a Prime. He'd inferred that Ilsa had been hiding secrets of her own and Jane’s words had just confirmed what he'd already suspected. 

Ilsa Faust had been an omega, once. One that had been induced into becoming an alpha–or studded, as they'd like to call it.

________________

The complications in Morocco hadn't been easy to deal with. Not because of the lost pendrive, no. Ilsa driving away was to be expected even as he had given chase, pursuing her with the fanatical obsession of having come close to Lane, only to be thwarted by his ignorance. 

No, the true complication had been seeing Benji collapse from the electric shock on the ground. Benji, whose voice had been the first one his mind had recognised in the haze it travelled through to consciousness. Benji, who smiled and joked about his impending mortality with a tone reserved for hushed whispers amongst lovers–

The same Benji who fell to the ground in a heap because Ethan had foolishly trusted someone blinded by his own biases. 

The blood had rushed to his ears and he could feel the telltale prick of the canines in his mouth even as he'd struggled to gain control, body and mind warring with each other. The only thing that had soothed him was the hum of Benji's pulse. Still present. Still there. 

Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the chase hadn't just been about Lane. Maybe it had been something else. Maybe–

His self-control snapped in at the last second as he'd veered desperately off-course to avoid crashing into Ilsa– not again not the blood No blood–Blood She hurt Benji. She deserve–no she doesn't she was forced–

….

Walking back to the rest of the group, seeing Benji alive and well as he'd smiled and presented Ethan with a copy of the drive, something in him had settled and rumbled at the same time.

________________

Their flight back to Toronto had been piloted by Luther and Brandt, who looked to have become good comrades in the time they'd spent together. Ethan was quite surprised considering it took an impossible circumstance– or the betrayal and subsequent death of your team by your very own team leader– to get him to tolerate–let alone trust –anyone. 

Jane was somewhere near the front, sleeping off her injuries and nursing her wounds; both physical ones and well–

Ethan didn't blame her, really. 

Sitting in the back of the plane, he looked at Benji, fiddling with something on his laptop; an echo of the first mission they'd had together. 

But things had changed, hadn't they? They were older. More experienced. Benji had an immaculate beard and yet some things had remained the same. He leaned closer, hoping to covertly get a whiff of cinnamon only for Benji to turn his way at the very moment. 

“Are you really okay?” Ethan squinted at him, not sure which answer to give, only for Benji to huff, “I mean, it all seemed–” He waved his hands about, “I'm saying I'm sorry it all went down that way, you know?”

“It wasn't your fault, Benji.” He said simply. Because it really hadn't been. 

“That's not–” Benji's fingers left the keyboard to run at his face, scratching his beard, “What I mean to say is, Ethan –” Ethan leaned his head closer to listen better, and if only to be nearer Benji, which only served to fluster the man further. “Would you stop that!” He grumbled, turning his face away yet not making any move to shift his body away at all. 

Ethan smiled and acquiesced. Red was a beautiful color on Benji. 

“Thank you.” Benji said, inhaling a deep breath, “What I wanted to say is that you trusted her–Hell, for a moment, I did too. I felt like I misjudged her.” He exhaled, “Only for her to betray you like that. I–”

“Ilsa's not a bad person.” Ethan clamped his mouth shut, not knowing where that came from. He didn't know why he felt the urge to defend her. 

Benji looked like he wanted to argue but he let out a defeated sigh instead. Muttering under his breath, “Of course, you'd think that. ”

No no no you don't understand I'm not defending her I’m defending the circumstances She could've killed you I can never forgive her but she's still a caged animal I was one too Benji plea–

He needed Benji to know that she'd done whatever she could in the circumstance. That she was a caged animal only trying to survive. That it didn't make her a bad person, just desperate. Maybe if Benji understood the why, he wouldn't hate Etha–

“You don't need to wrack your brain looking for excuses for her behavior,” Benji's voice broke his inner ramblings. Please no, that's not–It’s not what you think. 

Things were tense for a bit. Quiet and awkward. 

Ethan swallowed before finally speaking, “I’d understand if you had doubts about my leadership.”

Benji turned to him with a surprised look, “What? No! ,” he gave an exasperated huff, “Ethan, I'm worried about you. Because I'm your friend. ”  He rolled his eyes, “And one bad call doesn't negate the hundreds, or thousands,–or hell, the hundreds of thousands of times you've saved my life in the field.”

But one bad call could've made me lose you. Ethan didn't say any of that. Just stretched his lips in a teasing smile, trying to take the lifeline for what it was, “I don't think the number's that high.” 

Benji snorted, “Not yet. ” 

The self-deprecation irked Ethan. Because humor was well and good but this– this felt too sincere to not come from a place of genuine belief. 

He'd just opened his mouth to argue when Benji had interrupted him, “I trust you, Ethan. I trusted you back then. And I do so now.” It was uttered with finality; conviction so strong it could persuade the faithless to seek salvation. Something that felt wholly undeserving to be delivered to someone like Ethan. 

And even as he was in the midst of this realisation, Benji just continued on, shifting the tone of the conversation because it was just like him to do so–bringing forth revolutions in Ethan's psyche and then simply moving on like nothing had happened, just in the very next second. 

“Now, because of my overwhelming kindness and sympathy for you–and because of the fact that I'm just a very good friend, I'll refrain from saying I told you so . This time.” He paused before adding, “Or atleast until the end of the mission.”

And even beyond the nebulous swirling of feelings and complicated emotions rolling in his gut, Ethan couldn't help the wave of fondness that crept up within him. The smile was real as he replied, “But you're still going to say it.”

Benji nodded, meeting his smile with a small one of his own. “Definitely. It's going to follow you for weeks, even months. Hell–” he cleared his throat, “could even go on for years.”

And Oh. 

And truly, Ethan couldn't even bring himself to retort with a fake grimace of his own because the idea–the possibility of Benji sticking around for years in his life was too beautiful of a thought to do anything but beam.

________________

Ethan didn't deserve Benji.

He didn't deserve much of anything to be honest. A failure of an Alpha–Prime or no. But somehow, somewhere, there was a part of him confident in its assertion that above everything else, he didn't deserve Benji–or more accurately, the trust freely given that he could never have earned.

Because he could understand the trust in leadership, it was a skill beaten into you by this life. Because your survival hinged on it. But Benji's trust in Ethan was something more precious, something beyond mere leadership.

And yet, what had that wrought? 

He'd delivered Benji right into the hands of the devil all because he'd wished to talk, to negotiate with the woman who'd betrayed them again and again. He'd smelled the acrid sour scent of the alpha over the woman's face and gone soft with sympathy. 

And that softness could very well cost them Benji. 

Chapter Text

The first thing Benji saw when he came to was darkness, before the hood was ripped away and he came face to face with the man–the terrorist they had been tracking all this time.

Solomon Lane looked quite normal, unassuming. He looked like a beta but he walked across the room with the poise and self-assuredness of an alpha. Benji didn't have a nose to trust, but he could recognise ego when he'd seen it. 

Lane didn't speak, silently approached Benji like he was measuring him up, eyes roving across his body top to bottom. It felt violating. And Benji had a distinct sense of sympathy for Ilsa, even amidst his anger, for having dealt with this for so long.

Lane leaned in closer and Benji stopped his struggling to learn further back, as much as the restraints would allow. Before the man stopped. There was a sense of satisfaction in him, a twisted sense of recognition before a raspy voice whispered, “Get him ready, please.”

________________

As Benji sat in the cafe of downtown London, bomb strapped to his chest and a madman in his ear, all he could feel was dread. Not for his own safety, no– Well, maybe a little– because he knew Ethan was going to be there, with a remarkably foolhardy plan that he was nonetheless going to execute. 

The dread remained in the unexpected variables of the equation. Ethan will come, yes. He'll listen to Benji speak the words of a psychopath and he'll negotiate. Benji's trust was absolute but the pin-prick of fear still remained and it ticked a steady rhythm alongside the timer stuck to his chest. 

He didn't glance at Ilsa, at the clear apology written in her face. Because despite his pity at her and her situation, sitting in that chair at that very moment, with the knowledge that he was luring Ethan into a death trap, Benji wasn't sure he was capable of any kindness towards her. 

…..

Wouldn't you know it, Ethan did come. He listened as Benji recited the words of a madman and told him to have a seat. Benji could see the concern in his eyes, clouded beneath something that he wasn't sure how to classify– anger, perhaps? It looked too calm for that– as a hand squeezed his shoulder. It was only the fear of triggering the pressure plate that kept him from leaning into the warmth.

And while Ethan sat and conversed and revealed his plan, all Benji could think was Of course. Because of course, even if forced to choose between two unfavorable options, Ethan would bully fate into letting him pick the third. 

It should perhaps be a surprise but it really wasn't.

Because that was the thing. People didn't follow Ethan out of deference to the fact that he was the Alpha. People followed him because you trusted him, in a sense beyond biology to lead you out of the proverbial storm that was the mission–CIA, IMF, disavowed. It didn't matter. Ethan wasn't a lighthouse, not necessarily–He could never be content to just remain stationary at sea. He was that aggressive rescue boat that ventured into uncharted waters with the confidence characteristic of protagonists and the criminally insane.

Guidance and Safety, to Ethan, were never passive affairs. It was a fight full of gnashing teeth, bruised ribs and cheeky grins, in spite of it all.

You trusted Ethan, because you knew that he would make sure you made it home. Even if it came at the cost of his own.

You absolute mad man, Benji thought even as his lips uttered, “Remember when I said some day you were gonna take things too far?” Ethan didn't say anything, just kept looking at him. Intensely. “That’s me speaking, not him,” he clarified, just to be sure.

And when Ethan spoke, a hint of canines glinting in the dim lighting of the bar, when he challenged Lane into giving him the passcode, into setting Benji free, all Benji could see was a plan forming.  Ethan's eyes held a calculated gaze and Benji knew the alpha had something in his mind.

“Go,” Ethan said, handing him a phone. “Brandt, Jane and Luther are waiting, Go.” And even as his instincts screamed at him to stay, to help him, Benji trusted him enough to walk away.

….

Sealing Lane was satisfying, watching as he struggled and squirmed in the glass cage felt cathartic. The psychopath who had been tormenting them for so long, now trapped in a glass chamber like a cockroach enclosed in a tumbler. 

Slipping into the neon jacket of the police uniform, Benji walked towards the end of the truck, locking in the glass cage. The plan was simple–Luther, Benji and Brandt were going to pretend to be officers and drive the getaway truck with Ethan and Jane mingling as civilians and meeting them at the airport.

As Benji closed the doors of the truck, he could feel someone approaching. From his periphery, he saw a swish of neon green and he got up to greet who he'd assumed to be Brandt only to meet green eyes instead: Ethan, wearing his own neon green police vest. Looking past him, he could see Brandt, sans police vest, talking on the phone, meeting his eyes to give him a discreet thumbs up. 

Looking back to Ethan, Benji could see that the alpha looked tired, relieved but exhausted. “Are you okay?” The words tumbled out before he could catch them.

Ethan paused, looking at him for a long time before his gaze shifted to the ground and he sighed. Muttering something inaudible under his breath, he looked at the beta, “I wasn't the one with a bomb to the chest, Benji.”

“About that, well,” he shrugged, “It all worked out, didn't it?” Because what else could he say, really? That I felt afraid, so so afraid but not of my own mortality but at what you would do to stop it from happening? That even in the midst of the realisation that my life was a breath away from ending, trusting you felt as easy as a sigh? 

He couldn't say that now, could he?

Ethan looked at him like he couldn't believe Benji was real which was quite ironic coming from the man who regularly scaled skyscrapers and hung from the sides of planes like they were monkey bars. 

Benji rolled his eyes before patting him on the shoulder, pushing him towards the front of the truck. “We need to be going now, Ethan.” 

The alpha wordlessly followed as Benji led him by the shoulders, even as they were adults and far beyond needing to be guided like toddlers. Ethan didn't complain. He didn't complain as Benji leaned on his body, far longer than necessary in the truck or the airport or the flight. 

Perhaps he didn't realise. Or perhaps he recognised that Benji needed that. Needed the comfort. Needed the physical reminder that Ethan was there. That they had made it. That they were safe.

________________

“You’re free now,” Jane said, approaching the woman with slow steps. “ Ilsa. ” She said as if testing the words out on her tongue, realising that for all that she'd been calling the woman that in her head, it was the first time she'd uttered it out loud. “Quite shorter than Rebecca, wouldn't you say so?”

“You’re one to talk, Elizabeth. ” Ilsa countered.

Jane titled her head to the side as if to say Fair enough. “So,” she ventured, “What now?”

“A name, perhaps.” Ilsa said, stepping closer. The scent of citrus intensifying with his successive step.

“You already know my name.” Nose to nose, their words were almost breathed out on their lips. 

Ilsa shook her head, “Maybe I want you to give it to me.” 

Jane gave her a long look. Considering. “Jane Carter.”

“ Jane. ” The woman uttered that single syllable like sin; tasting the fruit and letting the juice dribble down her chin. 

“Jane.” Brandt's voice called out, putting out two fingers in a gesture. Two minutes. He wiggled his fingers as if in emphasis. 

“I think your friend’s getting impatient” Ilsa said, voice amused.

Jane shook her head, “He'll understand.” Tilting her head, the omega asked, “Will I see you again?”

The woman gave her a long look, eyes searching for any hint of a lie. Jane didn't blame her because even she was surprised at her own words. 

It was stupidity. It was foolish. It was utter moronic to even consider the prospect of pursuing any relationship with the woman in front of her. And yet. Yet…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the woman hugging her, bringing her nose closer to the alpha's scent gland– citrus scented apology, intrigue, coconut mingling with want, desire and a frantic desperation, an invitation and a plea– Jane's eyes widened at the gesture, for what it meant, metaphorically baring her belly. “You know how to find me.” Her words were a whisper. Faint but they found their mark nonetheless.

Pulling herself back, the woman gave Jane a peck to the cheek. A final goodbye before driving away in her car. 

Jane stood there, just looking before Brandt nudged her, “We need to leave, Carter.” He said and she was disappointed to feel his artificial eucalyptus cover up the citrusy coconut of Ilsa's. 

Still she nodded. On their way back to the bike, he broached the unspoken question, “You going to take her up on that?” She didn't answer but he took it as one and nodded. “As your friend, I’d like to remind you that she's MI6–and also, British. ” He added, as an afterthought.

“Isn't Benji British?”

“Okay, but he's ours.” And Jane couldn't help but laugh.