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It’s not a nice day.
The air is cold, and it almost freezes the exposed skin off of anyone who is, well, exposing their skin. People’s breath comes out in short white puffs of steam, almost serving as a signal for the public to get their butts inside. Everything about the weather of this day points to it being a normal one except one thing.
The sky is filled with gray clouds, promising a deluge later in the day. However, the most glaring fixtures are the big numbers, floating in hazy clouds of red vapor. The numbers are slowly decreasing. These numbers are a timer.
There are two tall-ish buildings between which a tightrope has been connected. The public has gathered to watch, foregoing all other necessary activities to see whether the task that has been proposed to be completed will actually be brought to fruition.
In time, a stuntman is brought out. He is scantily clothed, for the entertainment of the public below. In fact, his only truly solid covering is on his nether regions; the rest of him is either covered in mesh or simply just open. He is the coldest out of all of them.
The stuntman balances on the rope, which is high up enough that a fall would most likely kill him. The crowd watches feverishly as he crosses. His arms are not out at his sides, impeding his balance. They are instead in front of him, holding an object of utmost importance: a spoon, and on the spoon is an egg.
The egg is vital. The stuntman focuses intently, controlling every wobble as he slowly makes his way across. He can see the big red numbers slowly counting down towards his doom as he puts one foot in front of the other. Swallowing down the screams that have been begging to be released since the beginning, he hardens his resolve and keeps going, with the deduction of a soldier and the skill and grace of a dancer.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he reaches the other side. The egg is still intact. He carefully places the egg in a crate and turns to the audience, holding his arms out in a fake salute of joy. (In reality, his insides are sinking in pools of dread.) The crowd is cheering, happy that he managed to complete the mission successfully. He grabs another egg and begins to take it to the other side.
This time, however, something goes wrong. There is an unexpected gust of wind which knocks the stuntman out of balance. The egg plummets towards the audience below.
The numbers stop going down and start flashing. The stuntman closes his eyes, swallows his shrieks, and falls to the side, down into the masses, who have their weapons raised.
Ilsa isn’t quite sure what this silence means, although he has a small inkling.
Ethan is deathly silent, staring at the wall in front of him with the blankest gaze she’s ever seen him with. She hasn’t known the man for long, only since their first meeting and bumping into him when he was on another mission. However, she’s starting to be able to read some parts of him like an open book. She supposes she’s always been good at knowing people that way.
She sits down next to him. She opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it. This is one of the first times she’s ever really doubted her actions towards other people. Usually, she knows what faces to put on, switching between them with ease, like a magician sifting through a deck of cards. She knows what words, what little gestures she can make in order to elicit a certain reaction from someone. (Of course, much of the time they are aware of what she’s doing, making the task that much harder.) Now, however, her footing is unsure. Where she used to prance on flat land, she now wobbles on a plank, right in the middle of unknown territory. Perhaps it’s because this is one of the only heart-to-heart relationships she’s had with anyone since her parents and her siblings.
She hopes that her presence will at least give some modicum of hope to Ethan. It can’t be easy, having the fate of the world rest on your shoulders time and time again. (She thinks that it’s also rested on hers as well, but never to the degree of Ethan. It rarely scares her, but sometimes she sits straight up in her sleep, staring at a wall as the consequences of her actions crash down on her in previously-unrealized waves.) She knows he deserves to know that he is cared for.
She wonders whether he does know.
Ethan has given no sign of noticing her, not speaking, almost not even breathing. She’s not sure of how to approach the man. Maybe sitting next to him isn’t enough? What…how is she supposed to reach out? It’s unlikely that Ethan would confess his deepest secrets and problems to someone he has just met, especially considering the circumstances of their meeting.
She gets up and walks away, planning to ask those closer to him to hopefully lend a hand.
The superhero stands on top of a hill.
His hands are on his hips, he is looking out to the horizon, and his face is set in a stone of heroic indifference. However, his guts churn like they’re in a concrete mixer, and he swallows often to suppress the tears that threaten to leak out.
He is not sure who the facade is for anymore. Everyone knows. They can see the tatters of the cap that trails behind him. It used to be illustrious, once upon a time. But each transgression, each failure, created a break in the seams that eventually began to show. In due course, the thing had fallen apart until it lay behind him in pieces now.
Julia watches as the man she once loved sleeps, almost blissfully unaware of the world around him. She always adored it when he slept–it was like the stress simply melted off his face, leaving him looking far more peaceful than he ever appeared to be in life.
She understands the reasons for the lines that adorn his face now–well, not so much “understands” as “is aware of”; she has never lived the horrors that he has and therefore can’t really empathize. Her heart hurts for him. She wishes that she could support him, but realistically, she is aware that it would never work. He cannot prioritize her over the world–he would never forgive himself, and to be honest, she wouldn’t forgive him either. She doesn’t think that she could take the emotional stress of not knowing whether he–whether they –would be safe. He needs someone who can understand what he’s been through and be there for him in a more complete way. She isn’t it, and she’s okay with that.
She wants the best for him, and she knows that he wants the best for her. That’s what it comes down to, really. Their love is not defined by rings on their fingers. In fact, the truest symbol of it is their parted ways.
There is a dancer within the snowglobe.
The dancer pliés. She coupés her back foot and pushes up into sous-sus, boureéing in a circle. There is a smile on her face, but something is off.
The toymaker reaches into the globe and pulls the dancer out. Opening her up, he sees that the inside of her is hollow. There is a wire trailing from the outside into the hollow space, sparking uselessly.
All his life, he has shoved down his cries. His shrieks and screams have never made it to the surface. He wants to keep it that way. He is like a canister–with enough strength and willpower, he can hold it all inside. It is imperative that he maintains control of himself at all times–one wrong word or move and he would usually be in a lot more trouble than usual. He is usually confident in his ability to hide his problems, but some days are harder than the rest.
These days are the ones where he yearns for an arm around his shoulders or a warm body pressing up against his. These are the moments where he fantasizes and longs for the loving touch of someone who hasn’t forsaken him yet. These are his loneliest times, for they are usually spent in solitude, trying to stave off the craving of touch and relationships and meaningful contact that have been festering.
It is especially hard this time. Ethan hasn’t seen Julia in years, but she seems to be doing amazing. He’s happy for her, he truly is. He had been afraid for a while that even faking her death wouldn’t be enough for the criminals chasing her, but he was thankfully wrong. He will forever be grateful that she is alive, and he will forever condemn himself for putting her in that situation in the first place.
Ilsa will probably leave again–she is not forced to remain with Ethan and his team after the mission’s success. Ethan tries to convince himself that it doesn’t sting a little. (It does sting. A lot.)
He knows that nobody needs to be bothered with his thoughts. He shouldn’t be a burden on them. And yet, he still feels like he has to tell someone.
Why can’t he just suppress this like he usually does?
Ethan shifts positions and curls up into a small ball facing the wall. He squeezes his legs to himself tightly, letting tears stream from his eyes without making a sound. He shivers violently, and he tries not to let the dam rupture.
Someone drapes a blanket over him. He decides to pretend that he’s asleep. People can still shiver in their sleep…right? It doesn’t really matter. He knows from the perfume that it’s Julia, and his heart aches for some reason he can’t quite name. He hears her whisper softly, “Stay safe, Ethan. I wish you the best.”
As she walks away, he thinks he hears an “I love you” and nearly screams. How can she love him? Him? He’s the man who nearly caused her death, and the deaths of many others. He’s the one who threw the course of her life off-kilter. He knows that she said she was content with how things turned out, but what if she only said it to make him feel better?
What kind of monster is he? Everywhere he goes, he ruins lives and causes heartache. Everywhere he turns, there is more destruction. He isn’t safe for anyone, not by a long shot. It’s only a matter of time before Benji or Luther or Ilsa are caught in the crossfire and killed.
He feels sobs wrenching out of him and growls, trying to shove his tears back in. Nothing stops. Everything just keeps leaking out and it’s almost explosive. He can only hope that nobody hears him…
…except now he hears footsteps. What luck. From the treat and the heaviness, he can tell that it’s Luther, Benji, and Ilsa. Great. Speak of the Devil, and all.
“Ethan?! Ethan, are you alright?!” he hears Benji asking. He wants to tell the other man that he’s fine , that it’s just his own internal weakness taking over, but he finds that he can’t speak. Ilsa says something about getting Julia, but Luther stops her.
Luther puts a hand on Ethan’s shoulder, gripping it hard. It’s almost painful, but it provides something for Ethan to focus on. After Ethan has quieted down a little bit, Luther pulls him up and tucks him into his side, leaning against the wall. Ethan will never admit it, but the touch makes him feel more comforted than he has in a long time.
Ethan isn’t quite sure what Luther says over his head to Benji and Ilsa, but it’s probably something about explaining what the hell this all is. He’ll admit that he’s surprised–he thought that Luther wasn’t aware of all of this at all. Apparently, he had been wrong. He turns towards Luther more, almost becoming perpendicular with the wall.
“Of course you were wrong, Ethan. I’ve been working with you for 22 years. I notice some things every now and then,” Luther rumbles good-naturedly from above him. Ethan feels the corners of his mouth twitch a little.
Benji gently slots himself behind Ethan, wrapping a protective arm around his waist. Ilsa cards her hands through his hair, sitting a little in front of them. And even though Ethan feels like he’s not okay, like there are a million broken eggs and a thousand scraps of his cape and too many broken wires to count within himself, something inside him tells him that it won’t always be this way. Perhaps he can have hope. Perhaps he doesn’t need to hide.
He knows that these people see a whole cape and a carton of intact eggs and a toy that works just right, even exceptionally well. Maybe he can start seeing himself that way too.