Archive of Our Own ^beta

Deep in the Arctic Sea lay a man who barely fought to live.

The oxygen in his lungs was thinning. He knew how this would end. Perhaps it had ended long ago on that Venetian bridge.

Ethan Hunt could no longer feel his limbs. His heart labored to pump blood through frozen veins, fighting a battle its owner had already lost.

It was warm. He had pictured death many times, but never thought it would be this… comforting. The icy water enveloped him like a mother’s womb — warm and safe. He could even sense a familiar earthy fragrance through his blocked nostrils.

So this is how it ends.

His foggy mind filled with the thought of her — lying on the ancient bridge above the canal, wind brushing past her cheeks and ruffling her hair. Did she feel as at peace in her final moment as he did? Did she think of him?

It had been a year and a day since Ilsa Faust took her last breath. The world had not stopped turning. What they said about how one’s life would be forever changed after a loved one’s death was not true.

The sun still rose every morning. The enemy was still at large. Ethan Hunt still had to do the right thing and save the world from the grasp of the Entity.

Nothing had changed, really. Except that no one would jump into the water to save his ass now.

This stray thought amused Ethan. He guessed it was true, after all, that one would see their whole life flash before their eyes when they died.

Would she come and take him to the afterlife? Who had she seen when she died?

These questions burned through his fading mind. The water had caught up to him.

Between the hollow hum of the sea and his own weakening pulse, Ethan heard a soft voice calling out to him.

“Come away with me.”

He almost smiled. An echo from the past, or the afterlife, he could not tell.

All he knew was that he should have followed her when she asked it of him, all those years ago.

He should have.

Now, he would.

And for the first time in a year and a day, Ethan Hunt finally stopped running.

The sunset over the Venetian cityscape was breathtaking from the rooftop of their hideout.

Ethan took a sip of espresso, his nose crinkling at the taste.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

He turned at the voice. She was already walking toward him, her silhouette softened by the fading light.

“With a view like this,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” His gaze stayed on hers.

“Careful, Hunt.” Ilsa Faust came to stand beside him, her voice low, teasing. “I might think you’re flirting with me.”

She slipped her arms around his waist.

Ethan returned the embrace, harder than he meant to. He didn’t know what had come over him; the urge to hold her as tight as he could, as if to stop time itself, overwhelmed him.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The city murmured beneath them — water lapping against stone, church bells echoing from afar.

“Ilsa,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

She tilted her head up, searching his face. “What is it?”

He could feel the faint, uneven rhythm of her breathing— and something inside him began to remember this moment, even as it was happening, as though he were already looking back from its end.

“Stay with me. After this.” He whispered it as he leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head.

She held him tighter. She could tell how tense he’d become these last few weeks, chasing an invisible enemy.

“Or you could come away with me,” Ilsa murmured, her smile soft, tone light. “That offer still stands, you know.”

“I’ll take it, then.” Ethan lifted a hand to cup her jaw.

The sun slipped completely behind the church dome. The last light lingered on the water for a moment, then was gone.

Two months after the Kashmir mission, Ethan and Ilsa finally managed to align their schedules and meet in London.

She took him to her favorite bar — a quiet place tucked away from the city’s rush — and later, they walked along the Thames. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and river.

She turned at something he said, laughter catching in her throat. Her eyes were so bright that for a moment, the whole world faded away.

“Earth to Ethan.” She poked a finger against his chest, breaking his reverie. “What’s on your mind, darling?”

“You,” he replied, serious — but his eyes softened as he said it.

For a beat, neither spoke. The city lights trembled on the surface of the river, and the wind carried the quiet sound of a boat passing under the bridge.

The Casablanca sun was merciless. Heat shimmered off the road as Ethan killed the engine and stepped out of the rental car, dust crunching beneath his boots. A herd of sheep grazed lazily nearby, unbothered by the stranger who had just arrived from another world.

He hadn’t told Benji about this. About how he just knew where to find her — the woman who had appeared and vanished like a mirage. Ilsa Faust, she had called herself.

From his pocket, he pulled out a small card she’d left him, marked by a dark red lipstick stain. He turned it over once in his hand, half amused, half haunted, before following it down the narrow path toward her secluded house.

“Tada.”

Her voice reached him before she did — smooth, teasing, familiar in a way it shouldn’t have been. The gate clicked open, and there she was: a vision in a red silk shirt and black trousers that caught the light, the faintest smirk curving her lips.

“Guess you found me.”

For a moment, Ethan could only stare. He was struck not by surprise, but by the quiet certainty that he had been looking for her long before he ever knew her name.

Ethan couldn’t explain it, but he was certain he’d seen her face before.

The woman with dark, wavy hair and eyes too sharp to be gentle and too alluring to forget. A hint of danger lived in her smile, curved like a secret she’d never tell.

She sat alone in the corner of the café, sunlight spilling through the window and catching in the loose strands of her hair. Across a few tables, he watched her lift her cup, the movement unhurried, practiced — as if time itself bent around her.

Their eyes met.

For a breath, maybe two, the noise of the world fell away. The clatter of spoons, the hiss of the espresso machine, even the passing chatter — all of it faded until there was only that look.

She looked away first, setting her cup down. Her fingers traced its rim absently, like she was distracting herself.

Ethan took a sip of his espresso and frowned at the bitterness.

“Why order it if you don’t like the taste?”

The voice startled him — soft, accented, touched with amusement.

He looked up. She was watching him now, one brow raised, that same half-smile playing at her lips.

“Maybe I’ll like it someday,” he shrugged.

She studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing his answer.

“Maybe you will.” She smiled faintly and rose to leave, brushing past him as she went. A trace of her perfume, warm and grounded with leather and sandalwood, lingered in the air.

Ethan watched her, the taste of espresso still bitter on his tongue. For reasons he couldn’t name, he didn't mind it as much anymore.