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Ilsa’s running. She’s got a sword at her back and her heart is beating out of her chest as she takes hard turns down the Venetian streets and alleys. In the back of her mind, she knows she’s making a mistake. Playing into the hands of the Entity, putting herself at risk. She should listen to Ethan. She should - but no. She’s running.
Ilsa’s fighting. She’s on a bridge over running water, grey stone dull despite moonlight. Grace is a huddled heap at the other end, unconscious but breathing - she has to be breathing; Ilsa won’t accept anything less. Gabriel dodges as she advances, his movements inhumanly fluid, and Ilsa’s fighting - harder than she’s ever fought in her life.
Ilsa’s dying. She can feel cold stone against her back and Gabriel’s knife sliding agonisingly slow between her ribs. A smile stretches across his face. Blood drips from the cut Ilsa opened along his cheek, faster and faster, an ugly smear of red. You’re dead, Ilsa Faust, he hisses. We’ve won. They die next, your team, Hunt, Alanna, and you die now, darling, darling, my darling -
“Darling,” Ilsa hears, and suddenly she’s gasping for breath, reaching under her pillow for her knife, her gun, anything, an animal noise ripping itself from her throat when she finds nothing but empty space. “Ilsa!” A stranger’s voice calling her name - Ilsa whirls around, ready to fight, to strike, but for a moment there’s nothing but darkness. Darkness, and death, and nothing at all -
Just for a moment. Then she sees blue eyes, long blonde hair against pale skin, and Alanna takes shape in front of her. Alanna, who knows better than to reach for her, to touch her before Ilsa’s calmed down. She simply stares, a steadying figure in the bed beside her. Ilsa focuses on the line of her jaw, the rustle of her silk nightgown against her skin. Real. Alanna’s real, alive, and so is Ilsa. She’s alive.
“I’m here,” Alanna murmurs. She inches closer, testing the waters, and Ilsa lets Alanna take her hands, running her thumb gently against her palm. Slow, methodical, grounding Ilsa where she sits. “It was a nightmare. I’m here, my love. We’re here.”
Ilsa nods, not trusting herself with words just yet. Alanna holds her hands a little longer; when she lets go it’s gentle, easing them back into Ilsa’s lap. “We’re here,” she repeats, sleep-rough still, and honey-sweet. “I’m going to make us a drink, and we’ll drink it together, and then we’ll go back to sleep. Just wait here.”
Alanna slips out of the room, leaving the door open so Ilsa can see light from the hallway, can hear her make her way to the service kitchen on their floor. Alanna knows she needs this - ten minutes to sit by herself with her head between her knees, letting the silence of their bedroom wash over her. All she can hear is the beating of her heart and the way it gradually slows back to normal. She lets Alanna’s words echo in her head, a soothing repetition - we’re here. My love, we’re here.
She hears Alanna return before she sees her, accompanied by the sleepy mew of their two kittens, tagging along at her heels. Alanna sets two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the side table before scooping the kittens onto the bed; they squirm and nudge their tiny heads against Ilsa’s knee, then curl up in her lap to fall back asleep. It’s impossible not to smile and stroke them and feel warmth flood back into her veins. Ilsa reaches for Alanna’s hand, squeezes it, and murmurs, “thank you”.
“Better?” Alanna asks, and smiles when Ilsa nods. She reaches for one of the mugs and carefully places it in Ilsa’s hands, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic. Just warm enough to be pleasant, and Ilsa inhales deeply, relishing the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla. Alanna makes the best hot chocolate Ilsa’s ever tasted in her life - sweet and creamy, layered with flavours she can’t identify but absolutely loves. Ilsa takes a long sip and lets the liquid roll over her tongue, down her throat, settling comfortably in her stomach, warm enough to keep her through the night. Alanna reaches for her own mug with a smile. “Good?”
“You know it is,” Ilsa replies. “I still can’t convince you to let me in on the recipe?”
Alanna smirks; there’s mischief and faux-indignance in her tone when she teases, but relief, too, that Ilsa’s recovered enough to joke. “No one gets my trade secrets, darling. Not even you.” She leans in to run her thumb against Ilsa’s top lip, catching the remnants of whipped cream. She winks when she licks her fingers clean, and it’s impossible for Ilsa to keep from kissing her in return. Alanna tastes of chocolate, a hint of cinnamon, sugar sweet. Ilsa could kiss her forever, and she feels lucky to get that privilege for the rest of her life.
“Do you need to talk about it?” Alanna finally asks, after a comfortable silence spent enjoying their drinks. She adds, gently, “I’m always here, you know that. You don’t have to carry all this weight alone.”
Ilsa stares into her mug for a minute. She knows - she does. And there’s no one she’d rather talk to than Alanna when it comes to this, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. What they went through fighting Gabriel and the Entity - Ilsa wouldn’t call it new. She’s fought enemies before, people hell-bent on rewriting the definitions of good and evil, truth and lies, and nearly died in the effort. But that was before. She’d been the one to ask Alanna to come with her, to join her and Ethan and the team in their war, and she hadn’t realised exactly what that would mean. Alanna wasn't on that bridge, but she was elsewhere, and there were other fights, other near-misses for both of them, all of them, and sometimes her brain just thinks - what if?
She doesn’t think she’s afraid to die. It’s never been about that, hasn’t changed. But she’s got two sweet little kittens in her lap, and Alanna seated in front of her - the love of her life. Ilsa’s willing to put that out into the world, now. Ilsa won’t leave her alone. And she might’ve looked Ethan and everyone else in the eye, after, and said, no more, but she supposes her mind is still catching up.
“I’m fine,” Ilsa finally says. She means it. “I’m safe. I’m here with you, drinking your perfect, mysterious hot chocolate. Everything’s all right.”
Alanna studies her intently for a second, but doesn’t push, just closes in for another lingering kiss. They set the empty mugs aside and Alanna carries the kittens back to their room while Ilsa eases back under the sheets, waiting for Alanna to return and join her. Alanna's arms wrap around her waist without hesitation, and her lips brush against Ilsa's shoulder. “Dream of me,” she whispers, a benediction. “I’ll be here when we wake up.”
Alanna’s breathing. Alanna’s slipping easily back into sleep, a solid weight pressed against Ilsa, an anchor. Alive, and safe. Like she will be in the morning, and the morning after, and the morning after next. Ilsa closes her eyes, and lets herself fall asleep too.