Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ethan wakes with a gasp, his eyes flying open as he sits up in the dark room, gasping for air.

He can’t remember what woke him - a nightmare? A sound from outside?

His heartbeat gradually slows as his eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding him.

But even as he starts to see his surroundings more clearly, the panic doesn’t leave.

Where am I?

He doesn’t recognize the room that he’s in.

On an impulse, his fingers twitch towards the gun that’s under his pillow, but they find nothing.

Shit.

Ethan grabs his pillow, lifting it up to reveal nothing underneath, no gun to give him at least a tiny sense of security.

His fear surges as he realizes that not only does he have no idea where he is, but he’s also defenseless.

He scrambles frantically, trying to remember what had happened before he’d woken up here.

He’d been in London, visiting Luther to see how his oldest friend was getting along with his search for a way of stopping the entity.

Luther hadn’t had any major breakthroughs yet, but they’d spent some time just catching up.

Ethan remembers leaving the tunnels where Luther was staying, but after that…?

He shakes his head, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

He could probably get up, see if he manages to recognize the place where he is, even if he doesn’t know this room.

But a part of him, a quiet voice in the back of his head, tells him to just stay in bed, sleep for another hour. To get in a bit of sleep while he can, before he has to go on to the next mission and save the world again.

He pushes those thoughts to the back of his head, and gets up slowly, stabilizing himself on the wall by the bed as he carefully runs his hand along the wall, searching for a light switch.

He finds it eventually, and flicks it up, bathing the room in a warm light.

As his eyes adjust to the brightness now engulfing him, he gets all the confirmation he needs.

He really has no idea where he is.

He’s sitting in the kitchen downstairs now, sipping a coffee.

He appears to be in a two storey house, on the larger side, with a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, a pantry and a dining room on the ground floor, and one bedroom, a study, two empty rooms and a bathroom on the top floor.

A look out of the window hasn’t helped him narrow down the location of the house by much, given that the sun was just beginning to rise.

But since the sun had risen in the east, he knew he was still on the northern hemisphere.

The air was temperate when he’d stuck his hand out the window - not tropic, not arctic. So a temperate climate.

That leaves him sitting in the kitchen, a sketched map of the world in front of him.

He’s marked down a belt on the northern hemisphere: This house is either in southern Canada or northern America, or in central Europe.

He can exclude central Asia, northern Japan and the Kamchatka peninsula because the weather there is too cold.

Somewhat satisfied with his results, Ethan downs the rest of his coffee, and gets up to search the house more thoroughly.

The sun is higher in the sky by the time Ethan has finished his examination of the house.

The living room has a bookshelf full of novels, all of them about espionage - le Carré, Fleming, Greene.

He’s checked for patterns in the spines too, any kind of code that could be hidden within the books. However, he’d given up when he realized how long that would take.

The downstairs bathroom is equally unhelpful - just a generic bathroom, no secret hiding places or loose tiles.

The kitchen is pretty sparse food-wise - there are some basic groceries in the fridge and cupboards, only just enough to make a decent meal with.

There is a pantry, but that’s empty apart from a single jar of strawberry jam - his favorite.

He sighs as he sits down at the kitchen table, his thoughts racing.

The front door is locked, but he’s already spotted the key he’d need to open it hanging on a hook by the door.

He still needs to examine the upstairs rooms, but he’s putting that off until he’s had something to eat.

Surprisingly enough, he’d managed to find an old, somewhat stale loaf of bread in one of the shelves, so he goes to retrieve the strawberry jam from the pantry.

When he cuts into the bread and starts spreading the jam, he notices something odd.

The bread is warm, even if it had initially appeared stale.

And even the jam jar doesn’t have any dust or so on it, despite evidently having been standing in the pantry for quite some time.

He ignores those details for the time being, focusing more on the issues at hand.

As he chews on his sandwich, he tries to remember what had happened after he’d left the tunnels in London.

There had been something he’d been following, or someone; he doesn’t remember, which worries him more than being in this strange house.

Was he following Gabriel?

That’d be unlikely, he thinks, because Gabriel would not risk being out in the open around Ethan unless he has a bigger plan.

It could have been one of the entity’s followers - they tend to stir up quite a bit of trouble wherever they go.

But how could he have ended up here then?

This chain of thoughts gives Ethan a headache, as he massages his temples with a sigh.

He’ll have to wait and see if he remembers what he was following before he ended up here.

For now, he gets up and washes the few dishes he used, and places them on the rack next to the sink to dry.

This house is starting to grow on him, despite the panic it’d originally caused.

Maybe it’s just Ethan’s natural tendency to get attached quickly. Or maybe it’s something deeper - he doesn’t know.

He heads up the stairs again, ready to comb through the house more.

Just like the bottom floor, Ethan’s search of the top floor yields no clues.

He sighs as he swivels some water around in a glass, before taking a sip.

He could leave the house, scope the surroundings, maybe find some clues as to where he is.

The quiet voice in the back of his head protests, yells at him to just stay here for the day, get some sleep, eat a proper meal.

But Ethan squashes that voice instantly, and heads to the entrance door, looking for shoes and a coat.

Oddly enough, he manages to find both in his exact size.

That’s another thing that confuses him about this house.

Even though he doesn’t recognize it and has clearly never been here before, they somehow have clothes he can wear, in his exact size and in the colors he likes.

It’s almost like someone picked this house out exactly for him, and filled it up with things he likes.

Ethan doesn’t dwell on that thought. It makes him somewhat uncomfortable imagining someone finding his exact measurements to find him clothes and shoes.

It’s not that he would mind someone caring enough to know what things he likes.

What irks him is someone going into that much detail just to ensure his comfort, almost like whoever did it is trying to stop him from feeling out of place enough to start looking deeper into what’s going on here.

That’s an issue for another time, Ethan decides, as he slips on the jacket and takes the front door keys off their hook, unlocking the door.

The air outside is warm.

He doesn’t really need a jacket, but he keeps it on anyway.

He can see his surroundings more clearly now.

His house had seemed large from the inside, but now that he’s standing outside, it appears smaller than he’d expected, and he wonders how the house fits all the rooms inside.

It’s the last one of his street, standing right by a bridge, which is built over a wide, grey river.

He only has one neighbor, a house about the size of his on his right. Nothing across the street from him.

Over the bridge, he can already see what looks to be the center of a small town. There’s a few people wandering around, and he can already make out a few storefronts.

With a shrug, Ethan starts wandering towards the town center.

He doesn’t want to appear like he’s dangerous, but he’s slipped a small knife from the kitchen into the pocket of his trousers anyway, just to be sure.

His fingers flit to the knife as he walks, brushing the hilt reassuringly.

You’re okay. You have a knife, in case someone attacks you.

He almost wishes he had something to capture the moment with, he thinks, as he walks over the bridge.

The view is gorgeous, the river snaking through the plain in front of him and disappearing behind a bend.

It’s almost enough to distract him and tempt him into stopping to admire the view.

For a second, the water appears almost see-through, but before Ethan can really process that detail, it’s back to normal.

With a shake of his head, Ethan continues his walk towards the town.

He can see the signs more clearly now.

There’s a hostel to his right, with a bookshop on the other side of the street.

Next to it, apartment buildings, and then a bakery. The left side of the street hosts a bunch of residential buildings.

Ethan almost thinks he imagines it, but as he walks past the bakery, an unfamiliar woman, presumably the owner, waves at him from behind the counter.

That’s Zoey.

He almost stops dead at that thought.

He doesn’t know that woman. And she shouldn’t know him either.

Her waving at least must have a reason; she probably mistook him for someone else. That’s the most likely explanation.

But her name instantly coming to him? There’s nothing that can explain that.

Maybe he’s met her before? But then he’d have remembered her. And he’s sure that this is his first time seeing her.

Feeling the skin on his back crawl, he turns back towards the bakery, finding Zoey still staring at him, a bright smile on her face.

She waves again, her smile deepening, and Ethan awkwardly waves back, before hurrying on, hands shaking in his pocket as he tries to push down the sick feeling in his stomach.

He turns right as once he’s passed the bakery - onto Washington Avenue, according to the sign.

The street is pretty small, and only houses a few stores - a hardware store next to the bakery, and a café called Marie’s and a small repair shop across the street.

There’s more in the distance, but Ethan ignores that as he heads towards the repair shop, curious.

When he enters, his heart almost stops.

“Hey Ethan” Luther calls from behind the counter, barely glancing up from the radio he’s currently disassembling.

“Luther” Ethan whispers hoarsely, stabilizing himself on the doorframe, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he sees his oldest friend.

What is he doing here?

Why is he here?

How is he here?

Luther looks up from his work, frowning.

“You alright?”

Ethan shakes his head, slowly sinking onto the ground next to the door.

“Oh my god. What are you doing here? How are you here, you’re supposed to be in London. Oh my god” he chokes out.

There’s a battle of emotions going on inside of him - relief fighting fear, gladness fighting pure shock and horror.

He hears footsteps, but is unable to look up until Luther places a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Ethan?” He asks, his expression concerned.

Lifting his head to meet Luthers eyes feels impossible.

He shouldn’t be here.

How is he here?

“Luther-” he gasps, fighting tears. “How- why are you here?”

His friend laughs, giving Ethan a gentle nudge.

“What are you talking about?” He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I work here. I’ve lived here all my life. Has it really been that long since you visited?”

“Wha-” Ethan chokes out, his breathing labored. “No, you don’t, you haven’t, we-”

His entire body is shaking, the ache in his chest growing stronger, threatening to make his tears start flowing.

“We work together, we’re with the IMF. You don’t- you’re not-”

Luthers expression is somewhere between confusion and amusement.

“That’s a weird thing to say” He muses. Ethan almost hears a tinge of nervousness, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“I was born here, and I bought this shop when I graduated college - you were there. And what are you talking about with the IMF? What’s the International Monetary Fund got to do with anything?”

He shakes his head, as Ethan kneels helplessly on the floor, gasping for air as tears stream down his face.

Why doesn’t he remember?

Is he lying, or does he actually think this is his real life?

Why doesn’t he remember the IMF?

“Ethan? Are you alright?” Luther asks, his tone worried as he kneels down next to him.

He shakes his head, unable to answer.

His heart is pounding away in his chest at a rate that shouldn’t even be possible, as he tries with all his might to fight off the nausea rolling around in his stomach.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Work’s been tiring you out, huh?” Luther says, his tone softer and more reassuring.

Ethan feels his entire body tension as his friend mentions the CIA.

“You probably just need to rest a bit, catch up on some sleep, and eat a bit more” he continues.

“Call Marie and ask her to bring your regular - she still has it memorised, knowing her. You can go home and relax a bit, there’s no rush”.

Ethan shakes his head, barely listening to what Luther is saying. His thoughts are racing, making him dizzy.

I don’t work with the CIA, why would he say that?

I don’t have a regular for Marie to make, whoever that is.

And I don’t have the time to relax - I need to figure out what’s going on here.

He stabilizes himself on the doorframe, slowly pulling himself into a standing position.

“I’ll probably go home and relax a bit” he hears himself say to Luther, feeling himself slowly slip further and further from the moment, and deeper into his panicked thoughts.

“You probably need it” his friend responds sympathetically, patting him on the back.

“Yeah, I’ll come by again later” Ethan finishes, barely getting the words out as he stumbles out of the shop, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The little voice in the back of his head returns as Ethan hurries past the bakery, avoiding looking inside.

Stop.

He pauses for a moment, leaning against the wall next to him as he fights to breathe more freely.

A gentle breeze in the otherwise warm air grounds him as he carefully tilts his head back so that it’s resting against the wall, his eyes trained on the clear sky above him.

The bookshop.

He jumps as he hears the thought, almost like a voice yelling into his ear.

He looks around nervously, until his eyes land on the bookshop across the street from him.

Go there.

It’s pretty - grey stone walls and large windows, with soft, warm light shining from inside.

Almost like there’s an invisible force pulling him, Ethan takes a step towards the building, despite not consciously moving.

Now.

There it is again, another thought echoing like a scream in his head.

He hesitates for just a second, before crossing the street, briskly walking over to the bookshop.

He pulls the door open, quickly stepping inside as he closes it behind him.

It’s warm inside, a warmth that creeps into him instantly, relaxing his tense muscles and dimming the nausea in his stomach.

The shop is bigger than it looks, shelves along the walls and stands in the center of the room, all filled with books.

They look perfect - almost too perfect, all aligned just so, the covers matching colors and sizes, not a single bend in the spines.

Ethan steps closer, hesitating for a second before he runs his fingers along one of the shelves.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a flicker - one moment a sage green book is there, the next it’s gone. But before he can even blink, it’s back in its place, like it was never gone.

He backs away, that familiar sick feeling slowly creeping back into his stomach.

A sudden noise startles him.

It sounds like the turning of a page, a pretty harmless sound.

Nevertheless, Ethan’s fingers still creep towards the knife hidden in his pocket as he cautiously approaches the direction it came from.

There’s a counter in the corner, books stacked on them, but that’s not what catches Ethans eye.

A figure is standing there, leaning over a sheet of paper with a frown.

Ethans hands drop to his sides, his eyes bulging as he tries hard not to throw up at the sight of the person in front of him.

The figure lifts their head, blue eyes meeting his hazel ones, a smile forming on beautiful lips.

“Hello, Ethan” Ilsa Faust says quietly.

Chapter Text

Ethan feels like he’s just seen a ghost.

And in a way he has. Ilsa had died in Venice, he’d held her as her body went cold on that stone bridge.

But now, she’s standing in front of him, smiling at him as if nothing had ever happened.

“It’s good to see you”.

God, she even sounds like Ilsa does. Her eyes cloud the same way Ilsa’s did, and she comes out from behind the counter, walking over until she’s standing in front of him.

He drops his gaze to his shoes, unable to look at her.

She’s dead. He knows that for a fact. So how is she here now?

“Are you alright?” He hears her ask, her voice gentle. “Ethan?”

He feels the tears starting to pool in his eyes again, and mentally wills them away, shaking his head.

If he ignores her, he thinks, she might go away again. Or maybe he’ll wake up again, and this will all have been a dream.

Please, let this all just be a dream.

Please.

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his cheek, and rips his head up.

Ilsa, or whoever is posing as Ilsa, is cradling his cheek in her hand, her face barely an inch from his.

The feeling is familiar, too familiar, and despite a part of him wanting to pull away, he leans into her touch, letting her warm hand cup his cheek as she leans towards him, her expression concerned.

“Hey” she says softly, close enough that Ethan can feel her breath on his lips. “Look at me”.

It’s the only thing he can do.

His eyes scan her face, desperately trying to find something, anything, that gives away that she’s not really Ilsa, but he finds nothing.

Her features are exactly as he remembers from the last time he saw her.

Deep blue eyes, freckles, hair a few shades darker than he remembers, delicately formed lips - all beautiful features painting a picture of perfection.

He’s vaguely aware of what he must look like to her - standing here in front of her, shaking, tears running down his face.

The thought fills him with shame, and he tries to pull away, but her hand stays on his cheek, her eyebrows knitted into a frown.

“What’s going on? Are you alright?” She asks, her thumb caressing his cheekbone as she steps closer, her other hand taking his.

He shakes his head, breathing heavily.

“Do you remember-” he starts, choking on his words due to the tears streaming down his face, as he brings his hand to his eyes, aggressively trying to wipe them away.

“Yeah?” Ilsa asks quietly, squeezing his free hand.

“Vienna. Do you remember me there? The dress you were wearing? I-”.

Ilsa nods. “The dress was yellow. We were in the opera, and we escaped together by jumping off the roof”.

Relief blossoms in Ethan’s chest, almost too much, and he collapses to the ground, the feeling almost making his heart burst.

Ilsa kneels down next to him, and the sight of her tears a laugh out of him, coming from somewhere deep within.

He pulls her into a messy hug, slotting his nose into her neck, her soft hair tickling him.

She’s tense for just a second, before hugging him back just as enthusiastically, her hand finding the back of his neck, exactly like she had all those years ago in London.

God, she even smells exactly like he remembers.

All his worries vanish as she moves her head so that their cheeks are now pressed against each other, and whispers into his ear: “I’ve missed you, Ethan”.

“Your mother came by today” Ilsa says casually, not even glancing up from the piece of paper she’s scribbling on.

Ethan frowns, turning to face her. “My parents are dead”.

Ilsa looks up at him, her expression a mix between disgust and confusion.

“That’s not something to joke about” she says, her voice gentle despite her harsh words.

He shakes his head. “It’s the truth though. They died years ago”.

It’s Ilsa’s turn to frown now.

“No they’re not. They’re perfectly fine - alive and well, still have their dairy farm, just a bit out of town”.

Could it be?

He thinks back his childhood, days spent on his parents farm, playing in the sun, helping his father with the cows, feeding the chicken for his mother.

“Margaret just wanted to get a book, and she said that she’d stop by at your place tomorrow” she continues, shifting her focus back to her paper.

Ethan is barely listening, trying to process what Ilsa just told him.

His parents are alive. He weighs that thought in his mind.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he sees no reason why she’d lie about that.

It seems impossible, but Ilsa was also dead, and now she’s here.

“Did she mention a time?” He asks, half expecting her to laugh and tell him that it was a joke.

“Early evening some time” she answers, setting her pen aside to take a new piece of paper.

Ethan watches her, still fascinated by her presence here. He wants to remember everything, even if this is all just a dream - especially if this is all a dream and he’s going to wake up in the morning, without Ilsa.

Almost like she can sense his eyes on her, she looks up, meeting his gaze with a smile.

He leaves his place by the classics shelf, and walks over to the counter she’s leaning on, standing across from her.

“I’ve missed you” she admits, smiling sadly. “The entire town has - it’s been ages since you were last here”.

Ethan freezes.

“But Ilsa - I’ve never been here before” he says quietly.

Her smile falters, just for a moment, and she turns away from him, placing a notebook on the shelf behind her.

“You have. It was just… a long time ago” she mumbles, her voice tense.

“It’s not - I would have remembered. And I don’t even know where “here” is, let alone anyone but you and Luther” he argues, a tinge of irritation mixed with confusion blossoming in his chest.

Ilsa doesn’t meet his eyes, her fingers playing with a pen as she murmurs: “Maybe you need a bit of rest. You seem pretty beaten up - you’re probably just confused from a lack of sleep”.

Something about her tone and the way she says it tells Ethan not to argue, to just agree with her and go back home and rest.

Yes. Do that.

You’re confusing the people here with the way you’re acting, so stop it. Just go home and sleep it off.

He looks at her, his heart heavy with another rejection, and nods.

“I’ll probably do that” he agrees.

Ilsa visibly relaxes, her smile returning.

“Do you want to take a book with you? I can recommend you one” she offers, tilting her head slightly.

“Sure” Ethan agrees, seeing no harm.

She walks towards the shelf behind him, pulling out a book and handing it to him.

“Shadow of the Torturer” she explains, as he lets his gaze wander over the cover.

“I think you’ll like it” she adds, her voice suddenly sinister.

Ethan looks up quickly, but her expression is still calm and neutral.

He catches himself quickly, gripping the book firmly.

“Thanks. I’ll make sure to read it” he says, earning him a smile and a nod from Ilsa.

“You should probably go and rest now” she murmurs. “You’ll have a busy day tomorrow with your mother coming around”.

He frowns, confused by the way she says it, almost like a warning.

It’s not a warning. It’s just helpful advice.

Don’t be so judgmental.

The voice in his head chides him, while Ilsa looks at him expectantly.

“I better get going then” he agrees.

“Right. See you around, then” she says, the hint of a smile on her face.

Despite a part of him wanting to stay, and stretch the moment while he still knows for sure that she’s here with him, he nods, starting towards the door.

“See you around” he calls over his shoulder, before letting the door fall shut.

Standing outside the bookshop, Ethan starts thinking.

Both Ilsa and Luther are here, and according to Ilsa also his parents.

That makes him wonder - who else is here? Could it be that more people he knows are in this town?

Would he see Benji again?

His old team?

Hunley?

He could head into town, see who else he runs into. It’s clearly not just dead people, and also not only the people he knows.

He’ll do that, he decides, and takes the first step back towards the town.

No!

A bolt of pain rips through his head, and he almost drops his book as both his hands shoot up to clutch his forehead.

Where did that come from?

Despite the pain throbbing in his skull, he takes another step, and just as the voice in his head screams at him to stop, another load of pain slams into him.

This time, it’s not just his head, but also his chest.

Don’t do it!

More pain to his chest.

It’s not overwhelming, but it’s enough to stop Ethan from going further.

He steps back, one hand finding the wall as he leans on it, his breathing labored.

Go home.

He tightens his grip on the book Ilsa gave him, briefly hesitating before he steps towards the town again - a final test.

As expected, pain sears through his body, and he instantly jumps back.

Now.

Accepting his defeat, he turns away from the town, and slowly starts walking back home.

He only realizes how exhausted he is once he’s back home, taking off his shoes.

Despite his day not having been particularly tiring, and it only being 3 pm according to the kitchen clock, his eyelids still droop, and he wanders into the kitchen, deciding to delay figuring out what’s going on here until after he’s had something to eat.

He’s craving something warm - maybe pasta, just something to fill his stomach so that he’ll have enough energy to sit down and draft a plan for how to get out of this town.

Even though he’s pretty sure there wasn’t any pasta or anything to make a sauce in the kitchen when he’d checked in the morning, he still decides to see if he can find anything.

Weirdly enough, when he opens one of the drawers, there’s a box of penne pasta and a glass jar with pasta sauce lying there.

With a frown, Ethan picks up the jar, turning it over in his hands a few times, half expecting it to vanish.

But it stays, and no matter how he turns it, he doesn’t see anything wrong with it.

Deciding that he must have just been careless when examining the kitchen this morning, he grabs the pasta as well, and searches for a pot.

He manages to find two basic ones in the next drawer, the perfect size for a portion of pasta and a portion of sauce.

Once both pots are bubbling away on the stove, Ethan picks up the book Ilsa gave him, and begins reading the blurb on the back.

It seems interesting, and he’s definitely going to read it within the next few days, but it doesn’t look like it’ll contain any useful hints as to where he is and how he’s going to get out of this situation.

He opens the book and reads a few pages as he waits for his food to be done.

It’s a good book, and he can see why Ilsa recommended it, but a part of him wishes it were more helpful to him.

Maybe in a later chapter, he thinks, as he sets the book down and grabs a plate, scooping a helping of pasta and sauce onto his plate.

It tastes much better than he would have expected - it reminds him of his missions in Italy, when he had enough time to stop off and eat something local.

Whatever it is, he certainly appreciates it, even going back for a second helping.

After he’s done eating, he stacks his dishes in the sink, deciding to take care of them once he’s had a shower.

As he enters the upstairs bathroom, he sees a towel lying there.

That’s odd.

He hadn’t seen a towel in the morning when he’d been in this room.

He hesitates briefly, before picking the towel up and looking at it from all sides.

It even smells fresh, like it was just brought in after hanging on the washing line outside for hours.

When it doesn’t change in his hands, Ethan shakes his head with a sigh, and starts undressing.

The sun is setting when Ethan comes downstairs again.

“What?” He murmurs quietly, glancing over at the kitchen clock in confusion.

7:30 pm.

He can’t have been in the shower that long, that’s for sure. Not even if you count in the time he’d spent eating and cooking.

That reminds him - he needs to do the dishes.

But when he turns towards the counter next to the sink where he’d placed them, there’s nothing there.

That’s impossible.

He remembers putting his dirty dishes down there. He knows it, with bone-deep certainty.

And between the vanishing dishes, the way time had seemed to run faster while he was in the shower and all the other weird things that had happened today, he comes to one conclusion.

Something is seriously wrong here.

He jogs upstairs and into the study next to his room, and grabs a pen and paper, hastily scrawling down everything wrong in this place.

The warm bread.

The water in the river.

Him instantly knowing the name of the woman in the bakery.

Luther not remembering the IMF, or anything, apparently.

Ilsa being alive.

His parents as well, according to her.

Ilsa remembering him and their mission in Vienna when Luther didn’t seem to.

The little voice in the back of his head.

The pain when he’d tried to turn back into town.

He taps the pen on his lips, trying to think of more.

He’s getting more tired by the second, he realizes, and continues writing before he’s too exhausted to think of more.

The books in Ilsas bookshop.

The food and pans in the drawers that he hadn’t seen that morning.

The towel.

The time running weirdly while he was showering.

The-

Chapter Text

A sharp ringing sound wakes Ethan, and he sits up straight in an instant, his hand flying to grab a weapon, but just reaching for air.

Once his eyes have adjusted to the light shining in through the window in front of him, he looks around the room.

He’s in the study of his house - a spacious room on the top floor, equipped with a large desk pushed under the window and a comfortable chair, the walls lined with bookshelves.

Judging by the papers spread out on the surface in front of him, he’d fallen asleep over his work.

But when he looks over to check the list he’d started the night before, he doesn’t find it.

All the paper in front of him is blank.

Not even a scribble stains the pristine white sheets, making him wonder what had happened while he was sleeping.

Had he really started the list?

Maybe he’d wanted to, but ended up being too tired to actually write anything once he’d found paper and a pen?

That must be it.

He’s about to pick up the pen lying next to him, when he hears the ringing sound again.

Before he can wonder what’s making that noise, he hears the little voice whisper in his head again.

The doorbell.

Ethan frowns. Is he getting a new mission?

That’s usually the only reason anyone rings his doorbell.

Go check it.

Deciding to just get it over it, he stands up, rubbing his face quickly to get rid of any trails of drool or anything else that he might have stuck to him, before jogging down the stairs and opening the door.

He’s surprised by who’s standing outside.

It’s the woman from London. The one that had nodded to him before he’d jumped out the window.

Ethan doesn’t know how long he stares at her, his mouth open.

She just stands there, smiling, a plate of cookies in her hands.

Go on. Say something.

“Uhh… hi?” He croaks, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Hello Ethan! It’s good to have you back!” The woman exclaims, in a way that almost sounds rehearsed.

“I- I’m sorry, who are you?” He asks, still hazy.

“I’m Lauren, your neighbor!” She explains enthusiastically, the smile never leaving her face.

“I brought you some cookies, as a welcome back gift” Lauren adds, thrusting the plate at Ethan.

He takes it, confused, as she continues: “They’re chocolate chip, your favorite!”

He’d been craving chocolate chip cookies, but he wouldn’t say that they’re his favorite, so he has no idea how she managed to figure that out.

“Thanks. I’ll… bring them inside” he says hesitantly, taking a step back.

Lauren nods, which he takes as his sign to go back inside.

But before he can close his door again, the woman on his doorstep calls after him.

“Ethan! We’re glad to have you back. Stay as long as you want”.

He turns around sharply.

Lauren is still there, staring at him with an unsettling smile.

“Uh, … yeah. I’ll do that”, he answers, before quickly ducking inside and locking the door behind him.

Just like the bread, the cookies are still warm as he bites into one.

It doesn’t even faze him anymore - he just accepts it, swallowing without any second thoughts.

He’s not sure what to do.

He could try and go back into town, maybe explore the other shops and see if there’s anybody else here that he knows.

But the pain he’d experienced yesterday still lingers on his mind.

He doesn’t know if it’s a general thing to stop him from going back into town, or just something temporary to make him return home, but neither option seems favorable.

He could stay home, maybe read the book Ilsa gave him, but then he’d be losing time that could be spent figuring out how to get back to somewhere he knows.

For once, the voice in his head stays silent, leaving him alone to choose.

In the end, he settles into the study upstairs again, a glass of water next to him, and starts slowly and meticulously listing all the things that are off.

The voice.

The warm bread.

The water in the river.

The-

The doorbell pulls him away from his work.

Even though it doesn’t feel like he’s been working for a particularly long time, a look out the window tells him that the sun is already beginning to set.

Ethan sighs, rubbing his temples.

The way time runs here confuses him.

It seems to run faster at times, especially when he’s doing something low-effort, like showering or writing.

The doorbell rings again, and Ethan sets down his pen and stands up, staring at his work for a few seconds to burn the image into his brain, hoping that it’ll still be there when he returns.

Only then does he leave the room, carefully closing the door behind him, and start down the stairs.

He wishes he had a peephole here.

That way he wouldn’t have to open the door without being able to prepare for who’s standing outside.

Because when he opens the door and his mother is standing outside, he almost slams the door shut in her face.

Oh my god.

She’s alive.

He stands in the entryway, staring at her, dumbfounded, half expecting her to disappear if he blinks.

But no matter how many times he tries that, his mother is still standing on his doorstep, smiling at him.

“Hello Ethan! It’s good to have you back!” She exclaims happily after a second, stepping closer to wrap him in a hug.

He backs away, feeling bile creep into his throat.

It’s her.

That’s my mom.

She looks exactly like how she had when he’d last seen her, almost 20 years ago.

He’d visited too irregularly, he knows that.

He hadn’t even come to her funeral.

His mother had never met Julia - in fact, she didn’t even know that Ethan had stopped working in the field for long enough to meet her.

The last time he’d seen his mother was sometime after Nyah and the mission in Sydney, when he’d had time to stop by the farm.

She’d been happy to see him, but the encounter had left him feeling guilty for months after - guilty that he hadn’t visited for so long, guilty that she didn’t know anything about his job, guilty that she’d lost her husband, and then her only son.

But when she steps closer and cups his face like she used to when he was a child, it’s almost like they’d never been apart.

“Oh, don’t cry” she chirps, wiping away tears he didn’t even know he was crying.

Ethan shakes his head, unable to get another word out, and stumbles, sinking to his knees as he wraps his mother in a crushing hug.

She laughs quietly, and pulls him closer, dropping a kiss onto his head.

“It’s okay” she whispers into his hair.

“I’m here now”.

It takes Ethan almost half an hour to stop crying.

Every time he’d come close, he’d remembered something new - missing her funeral, seeing her in handcuffs thanks to Kittridge, the lost look on her face whenever he’d come to visit her.

His mother just sits next to him on his doorsteps, handing him tissue after tissue as she strokes his back, murmuring softly in his ear.

When his crying finally slows, she looks at him with a smile that’s almost too bright, considering the situation.

“It’s been a while since you last visited“ she remarks.

“Work’s been tiring you out, huh? Well, you’re here now, so you can relax a bit. Stay here as long as you want.”

For some reason, Ethan gets a strange sense of déjà vu at those words, though he can’t quite place it.

“I came by to pick you up for dinner” she continues, seemingly unaware that her son isn’t really focusing on her words.

That is, until she gives him a crucial piece of information.

“Your father’s already waiting for you.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in.

“Dad’s here too?” Ethan asks, his voice barely above a whisper, trying hard to stay composed.

“Of course! We still have the farm - haven’t changed a thing since you moved out” his mother explains, smiling brightly.

“In fact, we should probably head over there - dinner should be done soon, and you must be hungry by now.”

She’s right - just as the words leave her mouth, his stomach growls loudly.

“Thought so” she remarks. “We’re making booyah stew - it was your favorite growing up.”

He frowns. Sure, he’d liked it when he was a child, but it hadn’t been his favorite.

He’d mentioned that he missed it once to his mother, but surely she would remember that his childhood favorite was potato cheese soup?

“I drove over here, so just get in the car and we can drive over. Your father’s looking forward to seeing you again” she continues, gesticulating over to a silver four-seater on the street, that he hadn’t noticed until she’d pointed it out.

It doesn’t seem like the car that his parents would drive, though to be fair it has been a while since he last saw them.

Nevertheless, he still makes a mental note to include that in his list when he gets home again, as he gets up and follows his mother to the car.

Sitting at his parents’ dinner table, Ethan is surprised by how composed he’s managed to stay.

The reunion with his father had been surprisingly easy - maybe because his death was so long ago, and Ethan actually came to his funeral.

But either way, he’s still pretty emotional, sitting here with both his parents alive and well.

“You’re awful quiet” his father comments, slurping a spoonful of booyah stew broth.

Before Ethan can answer, his mother interjects.

“He’s tired Nathan - work’s been hard lately, hasn’t it?”

His parents both smile over at him, and he smiles back awkwardly, not really able to focus on the situation.

His thoughts are with the list he’d started, his fingers itching to get up and add more, since he hadn’t been able to finish it before his mother had come to pick him up.

He wishes he could focus and be present in the moment, but the feeling of unease that’s been sitting in his chest since he woke up here refuses to let him.

The silence between them is getting awkward, and his thoughts race as he tries to think of something to spark a conversation with.

“Mom, do you remember when you and uncle Donald were arrested because of those false claims about fraud in ‘96?” He asks, a sense of dread already building inside him even though his mother hasn’t answered yet.

She frowns, setting down her spoon next to her bowl.

“That never happened. You must have imagined it.”

Ethan’s stomach sinks as she says this.

“I didn’t imagine it. That happened - it was after dad died.”

It’s only when the words leave his mouth that he realizes what he’d just said.

Both his parents are staring at him - his mother’s expression horrified, his father’s somewhere between confusion and anger.

He sees tears forming in his mothers eyes, but before he can apologize, his father is already talking.

“Don’t you dare upset your mother like that! We understand that you’re a bit confused because work’s been hard lately and you’re tired, but that’s no reason to make up stories like that!”

Ethan is barely listening.

She doesn’t remember.

Oh shit, that’s bad.

“Ethan! Apologize to your mother!” His father thunders.

“I’m sorry mom” he starts. “I shouldn’t have said that - you’re right, I’m just too tired to think straight.”

His mother nods, reaching to take his hand.

“It’s alright. You work too hard - you need to relax more. But you’re here now, so you stay here as long as you want.”

There it is again - that phrase. Stay here as long as you want.

It unsettles him, the way she keeps saying it, like an echo always coming back to him.

Lauren had said it too, that morning, he suddenly remembers.

It’s almost like the town is supposed to keep him there for as long as possible.

“Ethan? You alright son?” His father asks. “I’m sorry I yelled at you like that.”

“Hm? Oh, it’s alright, I’m just a bit tired” Ethan lies, giving his father a reassuring smile.

“I’ll drive you home once you’ve finished your food then” his mother offers. “You look like you need some more rest. You can come by some other time when you’re less tired then, and we can have a bigger meal.”

“That’d be nice, thanks” Ethan accepts graciously.

He finishes his bowl slowly, stealing glances at his parents, just in case he wakes up tomorrow morning and they’re not here anymore.

When he’s done, he brings his bowl to the sink and hugs his father goodbye while his mother gets the car.

“See you around, son” his father calls after him before Ethan steps out of the door.

Outside, he frowns at the car in front of him.

It’s a dark green pickup truck, a standard for Wisconsin dairy farmers.

“Wasn’t the car you picked me up in silver?” He asks carefully as he sits down in the passenger seat, buckling up.

His mother frowns.

“It wasn’t - apart from the tractor, this is the only car we have. Maybe it looked different in the light.”

Mentally already adding another oddity to his list, he nods. “That’s probably it.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence, only breaking it as his mother parks in front of his house.

She leans over to Ethan, and pulls him in for a hug.

“I’ll come pick you up for dinner another day, once you’ve had some time to catch up on some sleep.”

He nods, pulling back to look at her before he gets out of the car.

“See you around” his mother calls after him, before pulling away from the house and onto the street.

As soon as she’s gone, Ethan hastily jams the key into the front door, frantically opening it, stepping inside and locking it behind him before he sheds his shoes and coat and jogs up the stairs to the study.

Thankfully, his notes are still there, and he grabs the pen to hastily scribble down everything he discovered today.

“Stay as long as you want.”

His parents not remembering.

The warm cookies.

The car suddenly changing color and build.

He sighs as he massages his temples.

He tries to draw an arrow at the bottom, maybe find a common denominator and a possible cause, but like last night, the exhaustion creeps up on him.

Though he hadn’t felt any pain from falling asleep over his notes, he would like to sleep in a bed while he still can.

So, he carefully lays out his notes so that he can continue tomorrow, and leaves the study, heading into his bedroom.

As his head hits the pillow, he suddenly thinks back to meeting Luther and Ilsa respectively, comparing it to his parents.

Luther and his parents hadn’t seemed to remember anything, but for some reason Ilsa had.

Does she know something?

Is she aware of something the others aren’t?

Ethan knows that he needs to find answers to that, but at the moment, sleep is a more pressing need, and so he vows to go and find Ilsa tomorrow.

As his eyes fall shut, for a moment he thinks he remembers something - a dark alleyway, footsteps echoing, a loud bang followed by pain in his head and complete darkness, but before he can hold on to the memory, he’s already asleep.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t feel like much time has passed between Ethan laying down in bed, and him waking up again.

He hadn’t dreamt anything - not even one of the nightmares that usually found him.

But he feels rested, more than usual, so he gets up, gathering some of the perfectly fitting clothes and wandering along to the bathroom.

Since there’s no real rush, he makes himself a decent breakfast - fried eggs and avocado on toast, simple enough but very healthy.

He doesn’t question the way that all the utensils and ingredients he needs just appear in the kitchen, or at least not openly.

In the back of his head, he’s stewing over options - maybe he’s in some elaborate dream, or a hallucination?

Or you’re going crazy.

His eyes briefly flutter shut when he hears the voice whispering in the back of his head.

He’s not sure if what’s happening here is real, or if he’s just imagining it. That scares him.

But whenever he thinks of his list, he calms down.

There’s just too much weird stuff going on here for it to just be him imagining it.

Maybe someone’s pulling strings from the outside, changing those details?

That might work - maybe he’s in a forcefully induced coma, possibly even a simulation, though that seems less likely.

It would help if he remembered what had happened before he woke up here, but the details are still somewhat hazy.

He’d left Luther’s, following something, but he still doesn’t know what it was.

He thinks back to his memory from the night before.

Admittedly, that isn’t incredibly helpful, but it does give him a vague idea of what specifically might be going on here.

He could be dreaming. It could all be fake, a plot of some kind, but in order to achieve what?

Then again, maybe he’s the one that’s confused, and this is all real and he’s just too exhausted to really be sure?

Though he would never admit that to himself, a part of him wants this to be the truth.

It’s a tug of war inside of him - the rational side telling him to stay critical and that something is off, fighting the side telling him that this is his life, and he’s just tired and confused.

He could test that, he suddenly realizes.

There are still some of the cookies Lauren had brought him left in one of the shelves.

They were chocolate chip cookies when she’d brought them over - he knows that for a fact.

But if he starts craving something else, will they change?

The same excitement that missions usually give him slowly creeps in, as he carefully washes the dishes, focusing intently on triple chocolate cookies.

Even though he isn’t hungry, he conjures up the image of such a cookie, with a soft center, almost falling apart if you don’t hold it carefully enough, the chocolate chips inside as warm as the cookie itself, half melted.

To his surprise, when he looks into the shelf where he’d stored Lauren’s cookies, they’re still exactly like he’d left them - chocolate chip cookies on a green-

No.

The plate was red.

Ethan carefully turns away and walks up the stairs, barely registering anything.

When he reaches the study, he blindly fumbles for the pen, and adds a single note to the list.

The plate changed colors.

It takes him a while to calm down again.

Though the plate changing colors isn’t a particularly grave detail, it somehow unsettles him more than he can explain - maybe because he knows for a fact that the plate had been red when Lauren had first brought the cookies around.

He could go over to talk to her, maybe ask her what color the plate she’d given him was.

But just as he’s about to get up and go over to her house, he sees something flashing brightly outside, followed by a loud burst of thunder.

Great, a thunderstorm - just my luck.

He retreats back to the desk, sitting down with his head in his hands.

The thunderstorm is another thing he could note down, he realizes, but he doesn’t have the energy to lift the pen and put the thought to paper.

He feels the exhaustion deep in his bones, has for many years already.

He might stop after everything with the entity is solved, he thinks. It’ll be hard, but he has to.

He knows that he isn’t going to last much longer like this.

He lets his head slowly drop forwards onto the desk.

He’ll go and ask Lauren about the plate once it’s stopped storming outside, he decides, as he brings his arms under his head - a better support as he lies there, staring out of the window at the storm outside.

According to the kitchen clock, several hours have passed by the time he descends, though to him it only feels like he was upstairs for an hour, if that.

Since the storm outside is still persisting, he tries anything to keep busy - he searches the house again, writes out another list in neater print which he hides in his bedframe, and organizes the kitchen again, putting everything somewhere new and more sensible.

But no matter how long he’s working, he still sees bolts of lightning illuminating the sky and hears the thunder accompany it less than a second later.

His frustration grows, and after he’s taken all the books off the shelf in the living room and organized them again for the third time, he’s had enough.

Despite the rain pouring outside, he goes to the entryway, rummaging around in the coats hanging there, trying to find one suitable for the weather outside.

But though is search doesn’t yield any results, he grabs a random coat from the hanger anyway, shrugging it on and slipping into the pair of boots standing by the door.

It’s not exactly a rainproof outfit, but Lauren doesn’t live far away at all.

As he opens the door, he’s met by a gust of wind that almost knocks him off his feet.

But strangely enough, the rain doesn’t have any effect - he doesn’t feel any of the drops he sees hit is face even though they’re coming straight towards him.

Deciding to write that down later, he turns to close the door, locking it behind him and double-checking that it’s really locked - one of his many paranoid spy traits.

When he turns back towards the storm, the rain is cold and wet on his face.

Somehow, the way the mistake was fixed so quickly doesn’t faze him.

He starts briskly walking towards the house next to him - it looks almost exactly like his, two storeys, grey exterior walls, medium sized.

He briefly hesitates outside the front door, thrown off by the lack of light from inside the building, but knocks anyway.

There’s no answer.

He waits a bit, hoping that someone will come and open the door for him, but a minute passes and there’s still been no sign that anyone’s home.

He knocks again, waits for a few minutes, repeating it a few times until he accepts that no one’s home.

With a sigh, he steps away from the house, about to head home again, when an idea strikes him.

He’s been into town briefly, yes, but what about the surrounding area?

He’s already soaked - the coat he took is really not made for rainy weather, and his boots aren’t ideal - so why not just satisfy his curiosity and see what’s beyond the town?

There’s a fork in the road across from Lauren’s house, which he decides to follow.

Something in his gut tells him to stop as he starts walking, the voice in his head mumbling quietly.

No. Stop.

Go back.

Ethan ignores it, and continues his stroll down the street.

It leads him towards more houses just like his and Lauren’s - a drab grey concrete block littered with a few windows, none of which are illuminated despite the storm blocking the sunlight.

There’s a mist lurking in the distance, making it even harder to see what’s there.

Deciding to ignore the houses, he hesitates for a moment before stepping away from the road, and walking towards the distance.

He’s instantly met with a sinking feeling in his stomach, stronger than the last time.

The voice is getting louder now, and sharper.

Turn back.

Now.

But still, he ignores it, walking further and further away from the town.

He can recognize trees in the distance now.

Maybe a forest of some kind?

It certainly looks like there’s enough foliage for it.

A bolt of pain suddenly shoots through his chest.

One of his hands shoots up to where his heart is, and he thinks back to the last time this had happened, when he’d tried to go into town after he’d gotten the book from Ilsa.

Just like that time, he hears the voice again, louder and more clear than before.

Go back home, now!

Do it.

He stumbles slightly, unsure whether to listen or whether to ignore it.

He’s already come so far, he can barely see the houses behind him, so why turn back now?

As he takes another step forward, the pain moves to his head.

He stops again, a hand pressed to his temples where the pain is worst, breathing heavily.

But before the voice in his head can say anything else, a different one sounds out from behind him.

“Ethan?”

Even though he already recognized her voice, he’s still surprised when he turns around and sees Ilsa standing there, in a long black raincoat and boots, holding an umbrella.

She tilts her head at him, stepping closer, so that he’s also standing under the umbrella, shielded from the rain.

“What are you doing out here?”

Chapter Text

Ethan rubs his hands, trying to warm them up more.

He and Ilsa had walked over to hers in silence, and neither of them had spoken since she’d asked him what he was doing outside the town and he couldn’t think of an answer.

During the entire walk back, Ilsa had held his hand, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand.

She’s in the kitchen now, and he watches her boil a kettle and rummage around in one of the shelves while he sits on her sofa, slowly warming up again.

Her house has an interesting build - the kitchen is right there where you come into the door, against one wall of the massive room also housing her dining table and the living room area opposite.

Every free space is adorned with bookshelves, filled to the brim with books of all shapes, sizes, colors and genres.

It’s nice - warm, cozy, and it feels more like home than his house does.

He hears footsteps coming towards him, and lifts his head just as Ilsa stops in front of him, handing him a cup of tea.

“Thanks” he says quietly, carefully taking it from her, cradling the warm mug in his hands.

The smell of the tea paired with its warmth comforts him, and he takes a tentative sip as Ilsa settles into the couch across from him.

She has a cup as well, but she sets it down on the coffee table, watching him as he drinks.

It’s chamomile with honey, the exact same way his mother used to make it.

The taste almost brings tears to his eyes, the nostalgia and longing for his mother causing an almost physical ache.

Almost as if she can sense something, Ilsa leans over and takes one of his cold, clammy hands into her soft, warm one.

She gives him a gentle smile, her thumb drawing random patterns onto the back of his hand.

“Ethan, what were you doing out there in the middle of a thunderstorm?” She asks suddenly, her voice perfectly calm, almost like she’s asking him about the weather.

He hesitates, unable to think of a good excuse.

“I- I guess I just felt too trapped inside, and like, needed to walk, you know?” He tries, attempting to keep his tone casual.

Ilsa nods, getting a distant look on her face as she does so.

“Yeah, I get that. But maybe you should wait for better weather the next time you want to go on a walk, hm? I mean, you’re here now, so you can stay as long as you want.”

Ethan freezes at the expression.

Stay here as long as you want.

Ilsa too?

She tilts her head at him, almost like she knows what he’s thinking.

“Are you alright? You seem… I don’t know, a bit lost at the moment?” She inquires, inching closer.

He doesn’t know how he could explain what’s going on, but he could test her, see if she remembers anything, or if she’s just like his parents and Luther.

“Ilsa” he starts, unsure of how to phrase what he’s about to say. “Do you remember how we met?”

She nods, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“Yeah. That was what, nine, ten years ago?”

Ethan’s throat tightens, and he barely chokes out his next question.

“Could you tell me more about it? Like, where was it, what were we doing, that stuff.”

She shrugs casually.

“I mean, we were in London, you were following the Syndicate, and you got captured. And I saved you from being tortured.”

She tilts her head at him, her gaze searching.

“Why d’you ask, any reason in particular?”

Ethan can barely keep himself from falling backwards, the relief leaving his body slack.

He shakes his head, unable to form words to answer.

Ilsa’s like me.

She remembers.

“I was just wondering” he manages to whisper after a while, his voice barely audible over the heartbeat drumming in his hears.

Ilsa shakes her head at him, smiling fondly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both sipping their tea, and Ethan staring at Ilsa with admiration every few seconds.

He’s trying to work up the courage to ask her how she’s here, what this place is, and why they both seem to be trapped here.

After a while, Ilsa seems to notice that he keeps glancing over at her, because she carefully sets down her cup on the coffee table and turns to face him.

“Ethan” she starts tentatively, the expression on her face unreadable.

“Just spit it out.”

He hesitates for a moment, before asking.

“What is this place?”

She raises an eyebrow, picking up her cup to take a sip, never once breaking eye contact.

“You mean my house?”

“No, not that. This town, and the area - where are we?”

She shrugs, like it’s a stupid question, then takes a long sip of tea and swallows it, all while staring at him, her expression almost judgmental.

“Heron’s Creek.”

“What?”

“Heron’s Creek. That’s the town where we are right now.”

Heron’s Creek.

Ethan lets the name roll around in his head, hoping to find something there, some memory of glimpsing it on a map or hearing it mentioned by someone.

But he doesn’t find anything, so he turns back to Ilsa.

“Where is Heron’s Creek though? Is it in the States somewhere, or is it in the UK or so?”

She shrugs, avoiding his searching gaze by taking another sip of her drink.

“That’s not important, is it?” She asks after a beat, still not meeting his eyes.

“No, it is” Ethan insists. “I have no idea where I am, and everything in this town is weird.”

He lowers his voice instinctively, leaning closer so that his words stay just between him and Ilsa.

“I’m keeping a list. Of all the stuff that’s wrong here. There’s ton - old food is still edible and fresh, even if it’s been here for ages. When I walked past a shop, there was a woman that I’d never seen before, and I knew her name. There’s a voice in my head giving me orders, and I feel a physical pain when I don’t listen to it. Dead people…”

He drifts off, unsure how to explain this to Ilsa, given that she’s technically dead as well.

“Dead people are alive, Ilsa. My parents are back here and… and you are too. And people that are alive are here as well. But except for you and me, nobody seems to remember anything that happened, and they all seem to think that we’re in some happy nice version of the world where we all live in a small town and nothing ever goes wrong. And everyone acts like I’m crazy for remembering what I do, and I don’t know what to do.”

His outburst leaves him somewhat out of breath, and he takes his cup of tea with shaking hands, hoping that by the time he’s done and looks at Ilsa again, the tears in his eyes and the blush on his cheeks will have vanished.

She looks unfazed though - her expression calm and neutral, the mask of a perfect spy.

For a second, Ethan thinks that she’ll say something helpful, or give a hint as to what’s going on here, but even the pessimistic side of him can’t prepare him for what she’s about to say.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You seem exhausted - some of that stuff you mentioned just… appears that way if you haven’t slept enough lately.”

Every last shred of hope is torn from him.

“Ilsa, that all happened. I remember it. And yeah, you could explain some stuff as exhaustion, but not everything. There’s nothing that can explain the pain I felt when I didn’t listen to the voice, and nothing that explains why you and my parents are here and alive.”

She frowns sadly, leaning further towards him and cradling his flushed cheek into her suddenly cool hand.

“Ethan, you’re not making any sense” she mumbles softly, shaking her head as she speaks.

“It’s fine here, you’re safe. You just need to take some time to relax, catch up on sleep. You’re feverish, so that might be confusing you a bit. Me and both your parents are still alive, and the pain you felt might have been from hunger or so. Have you been eating properly?”

He’s not going to get any further with her, he realizes. At the very least not tonight.

“I’m sorry, you’re right - I am tired” he admits, the words practically drawn out of his mouth.

The corners of Ilsa’s mouth lift up to form a sad smile, as she lets her thumb brush his cheekbone.

“I figured. I can walk you home, if you want? It’s not too far, but you probably shouldn’t go alone.”

Frustratingly enough, he is suddenly feeling tired, like a switch was flipped in his body.

“Sure, that’d be nice. Are you okay walking back alone though?”

She nods, explaining: “I usually take walks late at night on my own, so I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“Okay” he agrees, picking up his cup again and finishing the rest of the tea in one big gulp.

“Then let’s go.”

There’s still a little bit of rain when Ilsa and Ethan are walking back to his place.

It’s more of a drizzle anyway - the few drops falling don’t do much other than dampen his hair slightly.

They mostly walk in silence, but as they turn from the corner off of Ilsa’s street, she turns to him.

“Have you read the book I gave you yet?” She inquires.

“Uhhh, not yet. I’ve been kinda busy these past few days, so I haven’t got round to it yet.”

She nods, and they continue walking in silence, the only sound between them their boots breaking the surface of roadside puddles.

“You should read it though” she suddenly advises. “It’s a really good book.”

If he listens closely, Ethan thinks that he almost hears the hint of something in her voice, something deeper and more honest.

Is the book some kind of clue? Will it help him figure out what’s really going on here?

Her face betrays no emotion, and her gaze is focused on the dark road in front of them, illuminated only by the occasional streetlight.

As they reach the intersection across from Ethan’s house, she stops, turning to face him.

“I’ll probably head back now - you’re good from here, right?”

He nods, and she steps closer, wrapping him into a warm hug.

“If you ever need anything” she whispers, her soft lips grazing the shell of his ear, “come to me. Even if it’s just to talk. I’ll be there, okay?”

His arms circle her waist, in a way that’s almost too familiar.

“Thanks” he whispers back, the loose strands of her hair tickling his nose.

They pull apart after a while, but Ilsa still keeps a firm grip on his hand.

“I mean it. Come to me if you ever need to talk. And get some rest, alright?”

Ethan nods, and only then does Ilsa let go of his hand and turn away slightly, giving him a little wave before she walks back to her house.

He stays there, watches her until he can’t see her anymore, before turning towards his house, extracting the keys from his pocket and unlocking the door.

He mulls over his conversation with Ilsa as he takes off his shoes and coat and locks the door.

She’d told him that everything was safe here and that he was just tired, just like everyone else here he’d talked to.

But as mistrustful as that makes him, she’d also remembered how they’d met in London, and given that nobody else even remembered that he’s a spy, that’s a start at least.

He’s not particularly hungry, Ilsa’s tea having calmed both his nerves and his hunger, but he still wanders into the kitchen and grabs one of Lauren’s cookies, munching it as he tries to remember where he’d put the book Ilsa had given him.

He hadn’t read much of it, maybe a little bit on his first day.

The living room, he thinks, and wanders over, finding it lying exactly in the middle of the glass coffee table - not where he remembers leaving it.

But that doesn’t matter much, because his bookmark is still in there where he left it, so he simply settles into the couch, flicking it open where he stopped last time, and starts reading.

Chapter Text

It must be early afternoon by the time Ethan wakes.

The sun is shining in brightly through the window, as he pushes himself into a sitting position, his eyes still half shut with sleep.

He’d finished the book around 3 am, and been too tired to go up to the bedroom, so he’d just settled into the couch - he’s slept on worse.

Despite Ilsa’s insistence that he should read the book, it hadn’t given him any kind of clue.

Sure, the book was a very interesting one, but that’s all it really was - an interesting read.

He’s a little disappointed, but at least he’d fallen asleep quickly and slept for quite some time.

Once he’s showered and dressed, he wanders down to the kitchen to grab something to eat, a look at the clock tells him that it’s already around 2 pm.

He might head out to Ilsa’s bookshop, maybe ask her about the book and see if there’s a reason she was so insistent that he finishes it.

There’s a twinge of nervousness rolling around in his stomach as he pulls on a coat and shoes, perfectly dry despite the fact that he’d been walking around in the rain in them just a few hours ago.

It’s not like he’s scared of the town, quite the opposite, he’s curious about it and who else might be there, but the pain when he goes his own way instead of the one dictated by the voice is still fresh in his memory, and definitely not a fluke.

But since he hasn’t heard a word of protest yet, he slips outside, locking the door firmly behind him.

It’s too warm outside for the day after a thunderstorm.

The sky is a bright blue, not a single cloud, not even a cool breeze to indicate that it had been storming here just the night before.

Not even the street bears any signs of yesterday’s rain.

There’s a lot of stuff Ethan’ll have to note down on his list, he realizes, as he shrugs off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder.

The walk to the town is somewhat familiar, but he notices a lot of things he hadn’t before - a cozy-looking hostel next to the bridge, tall houses built in an old-fashioned style he can’t quite place, the almost perfect symmetry of the buildings lining the straight road in front of him.

Ilsa’s bookshop is closed until later, as the sign in front of the door informs him, and since the voice in his head doesn’t protest, he decides to take a wander around the town.

When he walks past the bakery, Zoey isn’t there, but it’s still open.

Deciding to visit it some other day, he continues walking straight on, past the café with the pastel sign at the door labeled “Marie’s”, until he reaches a small park, where another road meets his before it turns off to the side.

Since it doesn’t look like there’s anything other than houses on the street he’s currently walking on, he turns off to the side, towards the shops there.

The buildings there aren’t numerous, but instead large - the right side of the road is completely occupied by a large town hall, with the left bearing only a post office and what looks like the local newspaper.

Ethan realizes that he could have made use of the TV in his house, maybe watch the news, but before he can dwell on it, he hears a door open and close behind him, and spins around.

Zola Mitsopolis is leaving the post office, phone clutched in one hand as he chats casually to the person on the other end.

When he sees Ethan staring, he smiles and lifts a hand in recognition, nodding over at him.

Ethan awkwardly echoes the gesture, hastily walking off before the White Widow’s brother can come closer.

Another note for the list - Zola can join the admittedly short list of all the people here that he actually knows for sure.

He stops at another intersection.

On the left side, he can see a small firestation, while on the right, there’s a dinky ice cream shop named “Donloe’s Ice Cream”.

The name takes a bit to ring a bell.

Donloe, the man they’d poisoned when they’d broken into the CIA to steal the NOC-list.

He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t think back to him every now and then, wonder what had happened to him.

He’d have lost his job at the very least, that’s for sure.

But Donloe and Ethan had never been close, never even met, so why was he here too?

To guilt Ethan?

Or does he serve some purpose, maybe another clue?

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, before a warm hand claps onto his shoulder.

“Hello Ethan! It’s good to have you back!” Hunley’s voice rings out from behind him, as the younger man spins around in shock.

His old mentor figure is standing there, dressed in a suit almost exactly like the one he’d had on in London, when Walker had stabbed him.

You mean when you couldn’t save him.

A pang of guilt hits his chest, and he feels his throat close up, the dangerous way that means that tears are about to fall.

Luckily for him, Hunley launches into an almost practiced-seeming monologue.

“Your parents said you were back again - work’s been tiring you out, huh? Well, you look like you need some rest, but at least it’s better than when you got here.”

Warning bells ring in Ethan’s head, and before he can stop himself, he confronts the man in front of him.

“But, sir, you weren’t there when I got here.”

Hunley’s smile doesn’t waver.

“Oh, your parents told me all about it. You must have been pretty tired, Nathan said, because normally you’d never upset your mother like that, would you?” He muses breezily.

Ethan forces out a wry chuckle, shaking his head.

“No, don’t worry. I was just tired - I don’t know what got into me.”

Hunley nods, patting Ethan’s shoulder with his hand.

“I figured as much - it’s not like you to upset your mother, now is it?” He demands.

“No sir” the younger man affirms.

After a beat, Hunley looks him in the eye.

“I have to leave now - work is calling, but feel free to drop by anytime!”

“Wh- where would that be?” Ethan asks, confused.

“Well, the primary school, where else?” The old director answers.

“I know, I was just wondering where that is - it’s been a while since I was last here” he saves himself neatly.

“Is there anywhere that sells a plan of the city or so? That’d save me from getting lost as often as I do.”

Hunley nods thoughtfully, looking like he already has an answer ready but us just waiting for the moment to give it.

“Town hall has all kinds of stuff - maps and brochures about the town. It’s just across the street. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going. See you around!”

And with that, he wanders off, leaving Ethan standing on the side of the street alone.

About an hour later, Ethan is sitting back in his living room, brochures, maps and blank sheets of paper spread out in front of him, alongside his list.

The visit to the town hall had been relatively smooth - a young man named Simon Greene, who’s name had instantly jumped into Ethan’s head as soon as he laid eyes on him, had helped him pick out all essential brochures about Heron’s Creek, and told him that he was always welcome back if he needed anything.

So now, armed with a coffee from a machine that hadn’t been there when he’d left the house, Ethan sifts through his material with meticulous precision.

He’s already updated the list with everything that had happened since he’d last picked up a pen to do so, and now he’s taken a new sheet of paper and is jotting down all the information the brochures, maps and flyers give him.

Apparently, the town, which was founded in the early twelfth century and is named after the river Heron that flows through through it, is quite large, though there doesn’t seem to be any more information regarding where it is or who lives there.

At least he managed to get his hands on a map, and has managed to figure out where his house, Ilsa’s house, his parent’s farm and Luther’s shop are, alongside the hostel, the bakery and the streets he’d walked along earlier.

He picks up one of the flyers, hating the artificial feel of it in his hands, and flicks it to a page about the surrounding area of the town.

Apparently, the river running next to his house is a common route to “major cities in the area”, but it doesn’t specify which cities those may be.

There’s also a forest nearby, which Ethan had seen when he’d tried to leave the town, and a mountain chain.

He’s going to have to go at some point and explore more, he figures, but for now he’s hungry, and tired of researching, his hand cramped from all the writing he’s done.

He meanders into the kitchen, and as expected, finds all the ingredients he needs for a sandwich lying ready in one of the shelves.

Not even five minutes later, he’s fixed himself a quick ham and cheese sandwich, and is sitting on the couch again, deciding the best course of action.

He could hunt down Ilsa, and present her with his list.

That way she’d actually see the evidence, see that he isn’t just imagining things because he’s tired.

With the resolve to do just that once he’s finished, Ethan gulps down the rest of the sandwich, and brings his plates over to the sink.

He sits down by his work again, and grabs a new sheet of paper, quickly jotting down his findings, before pocketing that and getting ready to go.

It’s a quick walk from his house to Ilsa’s bookshop, he notices as he walks over the bridge, the shop already in sight.

The lights are on and he can see a figure moving around in it, so he quickly crosses the road and enters the shop.

It’s warm inside, in a comforting way.

Just like the last time, it’s only him and Ilsa, and she looks up from over the counter, her features forming a smile when she sees him.

She gets up from behind the counter, and starts walking towards him as he strides over to her, unable to hide the grin on his face.

They meet halfway, and he instantly pulls her into a hug.

Despite their conversation from the night before, it doesn’t seem like she’s angry or hurt or something, as he feels her smile deepen against the column of his neck.

They only pull apart after a few seconds, both still smiling at each other, though Ilsa’s has grown more earnest.

“Good to see you again” Ilsa mumbles quietly. “How are you?”

Ethan nods.

“Good, and you?”

“Fine. Did you get some rest? You definitely look healthier.”

“I did, yeah.”

He hesitates for a moment, leaning close enough that he can feel her breath on his face.

“I finished the book you gave me” he murmurs, catching the way her face takes on an almost surprised expression.

“Did you now? What did you think of it?”

He pauses, unsure of how to answer.

Yes, he’d liked it, it was a good book, but it wasn’t what he’d expected - it didn’t seem to be a clue of any kind, just a fun read.

“It was… nice. Not what I was expecting, but good anyway” he explains.

When Ilsa breathes, it almost sounds like a sigh she’s trying to mask.

“I see that. It is a book that you need to read several times to really appreciate it” she admits.

Ethan nods, unsure if he’s imagining the disdainful, almost disappointed look she gets.

“I liked it anyway. Maybe I’ll reread it” he offers, but she shakes her head, lifting her hand to stop him.

“Leave it for a bit. Give yourself a chance to stew it over, maybe read something else.”

If he listens closely, it’s almost like there’s something else in her voice, something between a plea and an order for him to listen to her.

“Sure” he answers quickly. “Do you have anything you’d recommend?”

Her shoulders seem to sag in relief for a second, and she darts over to the shelf closest to him, rummaging around near the top, until she finds what she’s looking for and hands it to him.

“Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World” she explains, while he turns over the book in his hands.

It’s pretty - a small but thick book with a white cover, and a dot that’s half red, half black, with black and white lines in it.

“It’s Murakami, so it’s quite introspective. But I think you’ll like it” she adds, offering him a small smile.

It doesn’t sound like there’s anything deeper he could read into her tone.

“Thanks” he mumbles, sliding the book into his pocket, feeling the paper of the list he’d forgotten he took with him rub against his hands, almost like a reminder.

He could show it to her.

He has nothing to lose from doing it.

And who knows - maybe if he shows it to her, she can help him figure out the things he can’t, like why these things happen here.

She definitely seems like she’s hiding something.

“Ilsa” he says quickly, grabbing her wrist when he notices she’s turning away from him.

“Hm?” She asks, facing him again, her eyes curious and her head tilted.

“I- can I show you something?”

“Sure.”

Ethan reaches into his pocket, extracting the list with shaking fingers and handing it to her.

She takes it from him, her warm fingers brushing his as the paper switches hands.

Her blue eyes scan the list, taking in the points he’d noted down, while he stands there, staring at her.

She’s so beautiful - she always has been, but he’s noticing it now especially, now that she’s the only stable thing he has, now that she’s the anchor keeping him in place, stopping him from drifting away.

He notices how her mouth opens slightly with each line her eyes flick along, and after a moment, she looks up at him, clutching the list in shaky hands, the whites of her knuckles showing.

She opens her mouth properly, almost like she wants to say something, but closes it again after a beat, blinking rapidly as she stares straight into his eyes.

“I can’t help you with this at the moment” she breathes hurriedly, trying to hand the list back to him.

He doesn’t move, even when she grabs his hand and tries to force the list back at him.

“You can keep it, I have several” he tries to explain to her, but she shakes her head.

“Ethan, I can’t help you with that. Please.”

After a moment of reluctance, he takes the list from her, noticing how she instantly cradles the hand that had held it, like it had burned her.

“Ilsa, why can’t you help me with it?” He asks her softly, stepping close to place a hand on her shoulder.

She tenses, shaking her head again.

“I just- I can’t help you with that. Not yet.”

Ethan nods, even if what she’s saying makes no sense to him.

“Should I, come back later or so?” He offers.

Ilsa looks up at him, her expression almost haunted.

“Do whatever you want, you can come back anytime. You’re here now, you can stay here as long as you want, and you can come and visit me anytime” she chokes out.

Something about the way she’s talking and looking at him unsettles Ethan, and he steps back slightly, letting his hand drop from her shoulder.

“Okay” he says, feeling like he’s running out of air the longer he’s in the shop.

“I’ll probably go now, but I’ll see you again at some point.”

Ilsa nods hurriedly, taking a step back from him.

“Yeah, yeah - you do that Ethan” she forces out, her voice strained.

He backs towards the door, smiling tensely at her.

“Well, see you” he calls once his hand has found the doorhandle, and quickly exits the shop.

But even as he stands on the street, his heart racing as he gasps for breath, the uneasy feeling still doesn’t leave him.

Chapter Text

The sound of rain spattering against the windows pulls Ethan out of his daydream.

He sits up straight, letting his gaze wander across the living room.

He’d returned home yesterday after his talk with Ilsa, and started hastily scribbling down everything he could remember of their conversation.

Though it wasn’t much, he’d still felt the need to stay up all night, writing out all his points on the list again and cutting them apart, pushing them into different orders to try and make sense of it.

But no matter how he organises the slips of paper, it still doesn’t make any sense.

Sure, he’s managed to figure out that there seems to be something wrong with this place, but with the certainty that everyone else is talking about him and the town, he’s starting to doubt himself.

Of course, he remembers everything, remembers his time with the IMF and all of his missions, but with how insistent everyone is that none of that happened…?

But then again, there’s Ilsa.

Ilsa, who remembers him as an IMF-agent, not as someone that’s lived in this town since childhood.

She seems to know something, but given how she reacted when he showed her his list, he’s not so sure now.

She’d told him that she couldn’t help him with it, or not yet at least.

He’s not sure what that means - does he have to do something in order for her to be able to help him?

Or does he have to wait a certain amount of time for her to know how to?

He sighs, resting his face on his hands.

He’s tired - he’d sat awake the entire night working, without getting any real results.

The thought of going to bed is tempting, get a few more hours of sleep and then try to figure something out when he’s actually slept.

But if he’s being honest, he doesn’t see the point.

The only thing that will happen is that he’ll lie there for ages, unable to fall asleep - and even when he does, he knows that it will be a dreamless night and he’ll wake up without feeling rested.

He sighs, and his gaze flickers over to the book Ilsa had given him.

It’s sitting there on the table, pushed to one side to make space for his notes.

He could read it.

It’s long, sure, but what else can he do?

The rain outside doesn’t look like it’s going to slow any time soon, so he might as well.

It’s not like there’s much else he can do, or at least not until the rain stops.

So, with a shrug, he reaches over and takes the book in his hand, flicking to the first page.

The doorbell pulls him away from the book, and Ethan looks around the room, still groggy from reading.

He’s hesitant for a moment, unsure if he really heard the sound or if he imagined it.

When it rings again, he reluctantly walks over to the door with unsteady steps.

The door is locked, which he only notices when he tries to open it.

So, with a deep sigh, he fumbles around on the shelves near the door, until his fingers close around the key.

He unlocks the door, and jumps when he sees his mother outside the door.

Even though he knows that she’s here in the town with him, it still shocks him to see that she’s actually here, and he didn’t imagine it all.

“Hello Ethan!” She chirps happily, a bright smile plastered on her face.

“Uh… hi” he manages, trying to stop his eyes from narrowing suspiciously.

His mother had never seemed this happy - she was a more rough around the edges person, rarely smiling as brightly as she is now.

“What are you reading?” She asks, and Ethan can almost hear an edge in her voice when she does.

“Oh-“ he turns the book that he didn’t remember he was still holding over in his hands.

“Just a book Ilsa gave me.”

Something in his mother’s expression changes - she seems more alert now, and the smile in her face diminishes.

“You got that from Ilsa?”

He’s definitely not imagining the edge in her voice now.

“Uhh, yeah, why?” He asks, hesitant.

Her eyes narrow, and when she opens her mouth to talk again, her tone is almost cutting.

“Interesting choice of company.”

She doesn’t elaborate, just plasters that familiar, too-bright smile on her face.

“Anyway. I was wondering if you’d like to come to lunch. Me and your father would love to have you over, especially since last time didn’t go so well.”

He hesitates briefly, unsure of what to do.

He wants to spend time with his parents, he really does.

But something in the way that they’re acting, how they don’t remember the same things he does, that scares him.

Nevertheless, he nods.

“Sure, I’ll come.”

This might be his chance to find out more - if he asks his parents more specific questions, questions that can tell him how much they know, it might help him figure out what’s going on here.

“That’s great!” His mother chirps, and turns around, waving a hand at the car parked behind her.

It’s still a dark green pickup truck, just more weathered-looking than the last time he’d seen it.

The sides are splattered with mud, and it looks less like it just came fresh from the shop.

Deciding not to comment on it, he follows his mother over to it, and gets inside.

The house is still the same as the last time, much to his relief.

Now that it’s daytime and he’s actually awake, he can really appreciate his surroundings.

The kitchen and dining room look exactly like they did when he was growing up - even the plates and cutlery are still just like he remembers.

A wave of nostalgia washes over him, and he’s glad for the chair he’s sitting on, keeping him in the moment.

His parents are chatting idly as he butters a slice of bread, barely listening.

Their lunch spread is the same way it used to be when he was a child - homemade bread with various different toppings, from raw ground beef to Wisconsin cheese.

But even though the food looks delicious, almost too good to be true, there’s something wrong with it.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing it a few times before swallowing.

Only on the second bite does he realize that the food doesn’t have any flavors.

However, just as Ethan is about to open his mouth to say something to his parents about it, the warm, smoky flavor of the meat erupts in his mouth, overwhelming him for a second.

He coughs, and reaches for his glass with shaky fingers, hastily chugging down the contents of it.

He can sense his parents’ eyes on him as he does, so he sets down his glass slowly and more deliberately.

His mother reaches for his hand, placing hers onto his.

“You alright, son?” His father asks, leaning closer.

“I’m fine” Ethan answers quickly.

“Did you get some rest?” His mother inquires, leaning in just like his father had.

He nods, catching a frown forming on her face out of the corner of his eye.

“That’s good. Because that is why you’re here, remember?”

His brow furrows, and he can’t stop himself.

“Mom, why am I here?”

His parents exchange a look, before his father turns towards him, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Ethan, you know why you’re here. You needed some time off work to relax, so you came here.”

Ethan shakes his head in agitation.

“No, that doesn’t make sense. I was in the middle of a mission, so even if I needed a rest, I wouldn’t have left. And I don’t even know how to get here, let alone if this is a real place or just me dreaming or so. I mean, it can’t be real, because otherwise you would be-”

He catches himself just in time, not wanting to upset his parents again.

They’re looking at him sadly, and his mother reaches out to clasp his hands in hers.

“Ethan. You still haven’t slept enough, have you? You sound like you did the last time you were here, all rambling and nonsensical.”

Mentally, he sighs, wanting to pull back from his mother and just leave.

But he doesn’t want to upset his parents again, especially not now since this is the first time he’s seen them in years.

So, with a sigh, he slumps in his chair, letting his head droop ever so slightly to sell his fake exhaustion.

“You’re right - I didn’t really get enough sleep last night. I think I just need to take a walk to clear my head or something.”

Both of his parents are looking at him, nodding at every word.

“Of course” his father says, clapping a hand onto his shoulder.

“Yes, take as much time as you need“ his mother adds reassuringly.

“Thanks” Ethan murmurs, smiling at both of them.

“I’ll probably head back now, if that’s alright with you. Maybe get some rest, take a nap, you know.”

They nod in unison, both of their eyes wide as saucers.

“Of course.”

He flinches just for a second.

It was almost like his parents had spoken in perfect unison, their mouths moving at the same time to form the same words.

But the way their voices had mixed scares him even more.

It had sounded more like a computer-generated voice, not like two separate voices overlapping.

So, he quickly gets up, pushing his chair back with more force than originally intended.

“Okay, I’ll go then.”

His mother follows him to the door, watching him intensely as he puts on his shoes and coat.

“Do you want a lift back to your house?” She asks.

Ethan shakes his head quickly.

“No thanks. But if you could just tell me how to walk to get there, I’ll be fine.”

His mother nods, and starts explaining.

Not even a minute later, he’s out of the door, and on his way back home.

What he’s doing is a bad idea.

Ethan knows that, but still, he must in some way see a value in doing this, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

Ilsa’s house stands in front of him, the same blocky grey exterior as all the other houses here.

There’s a light on in the kitchen, so she must be in.

He wants to ask her about the list, about why she can’t help him and why she was acting so weird.

So, he steels himself, and climbs up the steps to her door, knocking loudly.

He hears footsteps approaching, and a second later the door opens.

Ilsa smiles brightly when she sees him, extending a hand to pull him closer, until she can wrap her arms around him.

He mirrors her smile, tucking his face into her neck.

They pull apart after a second, but Ilsa’s hand still rests on his shoulder.

“What are you doing here, Ethan?” She asks warmly.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure whether to tell her openly.

Something in her expression shifts, almost like a shadow cast on her face.

“You better come in.”

He’s been sitting on Ilsa’s couch for a few minutes, just staring at her in silence.

They’d gone in and Ilsa had sent him straight to the couch while she got him a glass of water.

So now, they’re sitting in her living room together, with Ethan trying to work up the courage to ask her about the list.

She’s watching him closely, her blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Finally, almost like she can’t take the silence anymore, she asks: “Ethan. Why are you here?”

He hesitates, his mouth hanging slightly open as he tries to find the right words to express it.

Truth be told, he doesn’t really know why he’s here - something had pulled him here, and he’d followed.

It’s unlikely that she’ll explain why she can’t help him, if the last time they talked is an indicator.

But still, a part of him hopes that if he asks just the right questions just the right way, she might give him an answer.

So, he clears his throat and locks eyes with her, treading carefully.

“You can’t tell me what the problem with the list is, right?”

Just as those words leave his mouth, he hears the voice that had mostly been silent ringing out in his head again.

Stop.

Don’t ask questions.

Ilsa is looking at him, her expression unreadable.

She breathes in, her mouth open like she’s about to speak, before she closes it again, shaking her head with a sigh.

“I-“ she starts, but cuts off quickly with a sharp gasp, like a hand had been closed around her throat.

He instinctively shoots forwards, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Is there something stopping you from-“

A rod of pain shoots through his head, and his hand involuntarily tightens on Ilsa’s shoulder.

She tilts her head at him, and he sees her lips moving, though he doesn’t hear what she’s saying over the voice in his head.

Drop it.

Now.

“Ethan? Look at me. Are you alright?”

There’s a hint of irritation in her voice, like she’s already asked him before.

He manages to tear his eyes from where he’s got them trained on his hand on her shoulder, and look up to her face.

The moment their eyes meet, the slight frown on her face melts into concern, and she reaches to cup his cheek.

There’s pain coursing through his entire body, and he knows that the more he asks, the worse it’s going to get.

But still, he gathers all the strength he has in him to force out one more question.

“What’s stopping you from helping me?”

The pain intensifies, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

He feels like he’s about to pass out from the strain of keeping his composure and not letting his pain show.

But when suddenly, he feels Ilsa’s warm breath on his face, and her hands cupping his cheeks.

When he does manage to force his eyes open, the sad look on her face almost gives him the rest.

Just as he opens his mouth to try and speak, another bolt of pain shoots through him, so intense that for a moment he wonders if he’s dying.

He might be, because when he slams his eyes shut to stop himself from screaming out loud, he can’t open them again, and a second later he can’t feel anything anymore either.

Chapter Text

When he opens his eyes again, Ethan is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling above him.

Whatever he’s lying on is soft and warm, and he wishes to just sink into it and sleep forever.

But, the more critical, stricter part of him tells him not to, that he needs to wake up properly and figure out where he is.

So, he reluctantly sits up and lets his eyes wander around the room he’s in.

It’s familiar - off-white walls adorned with bookshelves stuffed to the brim with books, a dining room and kitchen structure a few metres away.

He frowns, his mind churning as he tries to remember where he knows this place from.

As he scans the room, his eyes fall onto a figure sitting on an armchair next to him.

Ilsa.

She’s sitting there, curled up in the chair, a book in her lap as she idly flicks through it.

Slowly, the details of what brought him here come back to him.

The dinner at his parents’.

Coming here.

Talking to Ilsa.

The pain when he’d asked her questions.

He’s not sure what exactly had happened after that, so he must have blacked out.

He sits up straighter, flinching slightly as the remnants of the pain he’d felt earlier make themselves noticeable.

In less than a second, Ilsa is at his side, a warm hand placed on his shoulder.

“Easy” she murmurs quietly. “Don’t exert yourself.”

He focuses on one of the bookshelves in front of him, a point to stabilise him slightly, and finally manages to get up into a sitting position.

Ilsa averts her eyes, instead focusing on the table next to him.

There’s a glass of water standing there, and she picks it up and hands it to him.

He takes it from her, their fingers brushing briefly, and gulps down the cool liquid greedily.

The hint of a smile appears on Ilsa’s lips as he does, and she takes the glass from him, walking over to the kitchen sink to refill it.

He uses this time to rub a hand over his face, trying to remember more.

The details are blurry - it’s almost like there’s a kind of fog over his mind, stopping him from being able to focus on anything.

Plus, he’s tired.

He’s exhausted in a way that he feels it deep in his bones, like it’s a poison coursing through his veins.

He knows that he’s in a town called Heron’s Creek, he doesn’t know where it is, but he knows that there’s stuff wrong here, and that he keeps a list of it.

What he doesn’t know is where that list is, but he senses that that doesn’t matter now.

Ilsa returns to his side, handing him the glass again.

He picks it up, letting the water swirl around in it for a moment before setting it down on the table with a sigh.

He’s incredibly tired - he’d pulled an all-nighter, staying up to do something the night before, he remembers.

Almost like she can sense something, Ilsa carefully reaches out to take his hand in hers.

“Ethan? Do you want me to walk you home?” She asks.

A part of him, the weaker one that holds him back at times, wants to protest.

He’s comfortable here, in the warmth of Ilsa’s home, with her here with him.

He doesn’t want that to change.

But, nevertheless, he nods.

“Sure.”

“Right” Ilsa murmurs, promptly getting up from where she’s kneeling in front of him.

When Ethan tries to mirror her movement, rising up from the couch he’s sitting on, a wave of dizziness and nausea washes over him, and he quickly drops back onto the safety of the couch.

He exhales shakily, pushing through the sick feeling until he’s standing, one hand clutching the arm rest like it’s his only lifeline.

Ilsa tilts her head at him, a frown forming on her face.

“Are you sure you can walk home? I mean, you look like you’re about to faint” she asks.

“I’m fine” Ethan forces out, still not letting go of the arm rest.

To prove his point, he tries taking a step, but instantly stumbles forward.

Ilsa quickly steps in, grabbing his shoulders to stabilize him.

“You’re not fine” she insists, the look in her eyes soft and concerned despite her harsh tone.

“I am, really” he argues, but she shakes her head, not letting him finish.

“You’re not. Frankly, I’m not going to walk someone who can’t even stand home. And given that you can’t walk without falling, I’d like to see you try and get home without my help.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, glaring at him.

He debates arguing, but if the look she’s giving him is anything to go by, it won’t be of any use either way.

So, he sighs reluctantly.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Ilsa looks at him for a moment, before wrapping her arm around his waist, stabilizing him.

“I have a guest room, you can stay here for the night. I’m taking you to the doctors in the morning though. And don’t you dare protest.”

“I won’t” Ethan mumbles quietly, his eyelids growing heavy with sleep.

“But thanks.”

She looks up at him, the corners of her mouth curling up into a smile.

“Of course.”

Her arm gently presses into his back, and together, they start walking forwards, until they get to a door.

Ilsa opens it, kicking it open wide enough so that they can both fit through.

Her hand reaches out to flick on the light, casting the room in a warm, almost golden light.

It’s a small but comfortable room - he can see a double bed against the back wall, a dresser underneath a window next to it.

When he and Ilsa step inside, he also notices a bookshelf opposite the bed.

She navigates them towards the bed, until he’s close enough to sit down on it.

“Right” Ilsa starts. “Bathroom’s next door, and I’ll be upstairs if you need anything, all right?”

He nods, letting his gaze wander around the room, and settle on the window.

Though it’s dark outside, he can faintly make out the shape of a tree - a willow, if he has to guess.

Ilsa follows his gaze, and walks over to the window briskly, pulling the curtains shut.

“Get some sleep, all right? If you need any food or drink, go to the kitchen, anything else, come upstairs and find me, alright?”

She turns back towards him, coming closer until she’s standing right in front of him.

For a moment, she hesitates, like she’s unsure whether she can or can’t do what she’s about to.

But, suddenly, she leans in, wrapping him into a tight hug.

“Sleep well, okay?” She whispers into his ear, before leaving the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Ethan listens to her footsteps going up the stairs, until he can’t make out the sound anymore.

Only then does he slowly lean over to turn the light off, and crawl into bed.

Soft, golden rays of sunlight shining in through the curtains wake Ethan.

He turns over in the bed, only opening his eyes once he’s facing the wall.

He’s not sure if he really slept - he hadn’t had any nightmares, which is unusual for him.

Instead, he’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, like he was drifting away into the darkness of the night.

Nevertheless, he feels well rested, so he slowly sits up, grateful that the nausea from last night isn’t there anymore.

He sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, he realizes, as his eyes start to adjust to the light in the room.

He has no idea what time it is, so he carefully gets up, his feel hitting the wooden floor as he keeps a hand on the bed in case he falls.

When he doesn’t he slowly starts walking towards the door and into the kitchen.

As he enters, the warm, comforting smell of bacon and eggs hits him, bringing back memories of early missions in the UK, when he’d gone out for food with his old team whenever they’d completed a mission.

It makes him wonder - are any of them here, in this town?

It would make sense - Ilsa, Hunley and his parents are here, and they’re dead too.

He’s deep in thought, trying to figure out how he can find out who’s here with him, and he doesn’t notice Ilsa coming up to him until she’s standing right in front of him.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks warmly, her voice pulling him back into the moment.

“Hm? I did, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

She smiles at him, reaching out to clasp his hand in hers.

“Are you hungry? I just started making breakfast.”

She gestures over to the stove, where there are two frying pans and a smaller pot cooking away.

“It’s bacon, eggs and beans - is that alright for you?”

“Sure” he agrees, following her into the kitchen.

The food is almost done, so she gets out two plates, setting them down on the table while Ethan gets the cutlery, placing down a knife, a fork and a spoon by each plate.

She serves a helping on each plate, and he tucks in with gusto, having barely realized how hungry he was.

He chats a bit with Ilsa - about their old missions, mostly.

He’s so glad that she remembers them, he notices, barely listening to what she’s saying, just watching her, her hair falling over her shoulder and catching the light in a way that makes it appear almost golden.

He’s missed her - obviously he has, it’s been like a physical pain gnawing in his chest every time he thought of her, which admittedly, happened a lot.

But now?

He feels the corners of his mouth turn upwards as he looks at her, her eyes twinkling as she waves her hands around, enthusiastically explaining how she’d beaten Vinter in London all those years ago.

He must have zoned out, because after a moment, she’s waving her hand around in front of his face, grinning at him.

“Ethan? Are you even listening?”

“Hm? Of course.”

She tilts her head at him, giving him a glare, though it doesn’t seem serious, since she’s still smiling at him.

“That reminds me - I’m bringing you to the doctors” she explains.

His stomach drops, and he quickly grips the corner of the table in front of him.

It’s not that he’s scared of doctors, he isn’t, he just doesn’t like going to them.

He’s not sure if it’s the fact that usually he only sees a doctor when he’s hurt after a mission, the helplessness he feels when he does, or if it’s just the memories of Julia that he prefers to avoid, but still.

He doesn’t like doctors, and that’s that.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that” he answers automatically, trying to keep his tone calm and convincing.

Ilsa gives him a look, the kind that means “yeah right”.

He tries to mirror her look, and they fight an unspoken battle for a bit, both glaring at each other until one backs down.

In the end, it’s Ethan, and he leans back in his chair with a sigh, picking up his glass of water and finishing it in one big sip.

“Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

The waiting room makes him more nervous than it should.

He’s not sure if it’s the smell, which is non-existent in this room for some reason, or the other people waiting with ashen faces, though there are non here now.

He bounces his knee up and down, until Ilsa leans over from her seat next to him, and places a warm hand on his leg.

“Ethan. Relax” she says slowly, drawing out every syllable.

“It’s going to be fine. Probably just stress or exhaustion, okay?”

He nods, swallowing nervously.

“Probably.”

She reaches for him, cupping his face in her hand and turning it towards her.

“Ethan. Look at me.”

He tears his eyes away from the water dispenser he’d been staring at for the past few minutes, turning to face her.

She’s looking at him with a familiar smile, and nods reassuringly.

“It’s going to be fine. You’re probably just tired or something, stressed maybe. It probably won’t be anything bad - just a pat on the shoulder and them telling you to take it easy for a few days.”

He shrugs, turning back towards the water dispenser.

Ilsa sighs next to him, letting her hand drop from his face into her lap.

They sit in silence, waiting together.

The sound of a door opening pulls them both back into the moment, and they both turn to face the new arrival.

It shouldn’t surprise Ethan when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

But still, something in his stomach drops when Julia Meade calls out his name.

“Ethan? You’re up next.”

Chapter Text

Ethan watches the light pass along the wall next to him, as Julia hastily notes down something on a piece of paper.

After a moment, she looks up at him, giving him a bright smile.

“So, there’s good news. There’s nothing objectively wrong with you, you’re most likely just stressed. Had a hard time at work lately, huh?”

She smiles at her own joke, shaking her head.

“Anyway, just try to not exert yourself too much, and make sure to drink enough and get enough sleep, alright?”

He nods, forcing a smile.

It’s not that he’s uncomfortable around Julia, it’s just like with his parents and all the other people in the town except for Ilsa - he’s not sure what exactly she knows, and he doesn’t want to give her a reason to keep him here longer.

So, he gets up when she does, even pulls her into a quick hug, before stepping back out into the waiting room, where Ilsa is still sitting and waiting for him.

She looks up when he exits, and stands up, walking over to meet him.

“And, what did she say?”

“Stress, like you said. I’m just supposed to take it easy for the time being.”

She nods.

“That’s good.”

They leave the building side by side, walking over to Ilsa’s car parked next to the doctor’s office.

As he gets into the passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt, Ilsa turns to face him, her expression grave.

He mentally prepares himself for another lecture about how he has to take better care of himself, or how he has to make sure to sleep more and better, so he’s surprised by what she asks.

“Where do you want dropping off? I can bring you into town, or somewhere.”

“Oh, I…”

He trails off, having not really thought about what to do now.

Sure, he could go into town, but to do what?

Of course, there’s always the possibility to look around more, or try to leave the town again, but he’s not sure what the point of that would be.

Best case, he manages to find something new.

Worst case…

He’s been sitting there, silently contemplating for quite some time, enough time for Ilsa’s voice to have taken on a twinge of irritation.

“Ethan? Where should I drop you off?”

“I don’t mind. I’ll probably come with you, and just walk home or so.”

He’s not sure how he managed to make a decision that quickly - it almost feels like someone ripped the words from his throat.

“Okay” she says, going silent again as she focuses on the road ahead again.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, until Ilsa pulls into a parking spot next to the bookshop.

“Right” she starts as she turns the engine off.

“I have to go work now, but I’ll come by later. Do you want to get dinner together?”

He nods, and Ilsa smiles at him, leaning over to take his hand before she pulls back, getting out of the car.

He follows suit, closing the car door behind him as he turns to face her.

“Well, I’ll be here if you need anything, alright?”

“Okay” he agrees.

“And you can call your parents too, if you need something.”

“Yeah.”

They stand in awkward silence for a moment, before Ilsa steps back with a sigh.

“Well, I better open the shop.”

“Alright” Ethan agrees.

She hesitates briefly, but evidently settles on something to say.

“Just try and relax a bit, okay? I’ll be around later.”

He nods, and with that final confirmation, she steps away and starts walking towards the bookshop, leaving him standing by her car.

Though he doesn’t remember taking his keys with him, they are there now when he reaches into his pocket.

Another item for the list, he thinks, as he steps inside, making sure to lock the door behind him and place the keys on the kitchen table, where he usually keeps them.

It’s probably not a good habit, he knows that, but especially now, when things move seemingly without human intervention, he needs that security that he has a fixed place for his keys.

Worst-case scenario, they move somewhere else, and he has more proof to show Ilsa at some point.

He slips out of his shoes and a coat that he doesn’t remember taking with him to Ilsa’s, and wanders over to the sink, grabbing a glass on his way there.

He fills it up, slowly drinking it as he takes in his surroundings.

Nothing seems to have changed, he thinks, or at least nothing significant enough for him to notice now.

But then again, the last time he’d thoroughly examined the house was quite some time ago, probably his first day here if he remembers correctly.

Either way, he knows that he has to get looking again, start organising his findings and hopefully add more to his list.

Maybe if he has more evidence, some kind of concrete proof that he’s not making stuff up, Ilsa will believe him and be able to help him.

So, he places down his now-empty glass, and starts up the stairs, ready to reprise his work.

Almost like it’s a pattern, the doorbell ringing pulls Ethan from his work.

He still feels drowsy from all the time spent just thinking, scraping his mind for anything he noticed over the past few days.

Deciding to not let whoever is ringing wait, he gets up, placing his work down firmly on the desk and committing it to memory, before he quickly bounds down the stairs, grabbing the keys from the kitchen table to unlock the door.

He’s glad that they’re still where he left them, when other things here change so quickly.

As he opens the door, he’s surprised to see Ilsa standing outside, smiling when she sees him.

“Hi” she says, her voice quiet, almost shy. “Did you have a nice day?”

“Yeah, I did” he answers, giving her an agreeable smile.

“Did you rest a bit?”

Her expression is sincere now, all of a sudden, her gaze concerned.

“I did.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, I-”

He’s not sure how to answer that question, so he just improvises.

“I just read a bit, did a bit of writing, easy stuff.”

Ilsa looks at him admiringly.

“That’s good. I didn’t know you write though - what kind of stuff do you write?”

He shrugs.

“Nothing really serious, more just notes about stuff I find interesting.”

It’s not even a lie - what’s going on here does interest him, more than it should, probably.

And that’s all his notes really are, an assortment of things about this place that interest him, things he wants to know more about.

“That’s nice” Ilsa says, her voice quiet as she turns away from him slightly, looking at the darkening sky.

“Anyway, I was wondering if you’re ready to get dinner. I assume you haven’t had anything to eat, knowing you” she muses.

He laughs awkwardly, even though she has a point.

“Yeah, I wasn’t really hungry, I was so in the flow.”

She smiles at him, something in her gaze softening.

“Well, then let’s go. Marie’s has a pretty big selection, so you’ll definitely find something good. I’ll drive, you just come out when you’re ready, alright?”

“Yeah” he agrees.

Ilsa steps away from the door and walks over to her, getting into the driver’s seat as Ethan quickly slips on his shoes and coat, carefully locking the door behind him and placing the keys into his right-hand pocket, patting them for reassurance before he steps outside and walks over to the car.

An uneasy feeling settles into his stomach as they enter Marie’s, a dinky little restaurant building on a street corner near Ilsa’s bookshop.

While he nervously scans the cozy space, filled with wooden tables and chairs, warm light coming from the bulbs hanging from the ceiling above them, Ilsa seems perfectly relaxed, waving to the young waiter behind the till before weaving through the cramped room until she finds a free table near one of the windows.

Ethan would like to pull out her chair for her, a little gentlemanly act, but she is already seated before he can do so, so he just sits down opposite her, taking off his coat to drape it over the back of his chair.

His heartbeat is way higher than it should be, but he can’t help it - something about this place feels uncannily familiar, and he’s not sure if it’s something in the way this place looks, the way it smells, or the people around him.

Not that he recognizes anyone here, or even the place.

It seems to just be a pretty normal, standard, small-town café, but he’s spent enough time as a spy to know that everything has a twist, especially if it looks normal.

He might just be paranoid, he knows that, but he can’t stop the way his eyes dart around nervously, lingering on anything that even for a moment looks suspicious.

The tables are all occupied by groups of people, sitting together, all of them chattering comfortably, maybe the odd swell of laughter.

Nobody seems to be feeling any other emotion except joy, which unsettles him.

His gut feeling has never been wrong, and something is clearly off here.

Is there some kind of drugging going on?

That’s one of the few logical explanations why everyone is so cheerful and upbeat, but if there was some kind of drug, how does it reach people?

Is it in the water, or the food?

He’s not sure if he’s going to eat any, just in case-

“Can I get anything started for you two?”

Ethan almost jumps out of his skin.

Marie.

He hasn’t heard her voice in ages, let alone laid eyes on her, but now she’s standing right in front of him, smiling brightly.

Ilsa is speaking to her, probably giving her order, but he can’t think, can’t move, is just stuck the way he is, staring at her.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, there’d been many signs - other dead people being here, like his father, who had died before he’d even met Marie, hell, the café being named after her.

But still, somehow, this town never fails to shock him with what else, and who else is here.

“Ethan? Ethan, what would you like?”

“Hm?”

Ilsa’s voice pulls him out of his thought spiral, and he quickly jerks his head up to where she and Marie are both looking at him quizzically.

“Uhhh, I don’t mind. Whatever you took” he answers quickly, nodding at Ilsa.

“Alright” Marie says cheerfully, noting something down on her notepad, and turning away to head back to the kitchen.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, grabbing her warm arm, causing her to turn back to face him.

“Marie, how-“ he cuts off, unsure how to formulate all the questions he has.

How are you here?

Why are you here?

How are you alive?

“How? I mean, how are you here, alive?”

She laughs awkwardly, pulling her arm out of his grasp and taking a step back.

“Oh, Ethan, you must be tired. Try and get some rest, okay?”

With that, she quickly turns around, hurrying towards the safety of the kitchen without looking back.

He stares after her for a few moments, not really ready to let her go.

But, he feels Ilsa’s gaze boring into him, so, with a sigh, he turns back towards her.

She’s looking at him with a mix of disappointment and frustration.

“I don’t know why you insist on always pushing things” she starts after a moment. “But I wish you wouldn’t. Just stop it, and take some time to rest, and think, before you jump into stupid stuff.”

He opens his mouth, but after realizing that he has no answer, closes it again.

Ilsa has stopped glaring at him now, and gone to looking out the window.

He’s not even really thrown off by her harsh words, more by her tone - it’s angry, sure, but there’s something else in it.

Is she jealous?

She’s not really paying attention now, instead glaring daggers out at the dark street.

So, using his chance, he looks at her, really looks, trying to make sense of her.

Something inside tells him that he’s taking it too far, mistrusting Ilsa when she’s been the only one consistently on his side ever since he got here.

But something about the way that she’s been acting, telling him that he’s imagining the things he’d told her about, or the way that she’d chided him, just doesn’t sit right with him.

Physically, she looks almost exactly like he remembers last seeing her, her hair long and wavy, somewhere between golden blonde and light brown, her eyes still a piercing blue, even the shade of her skin the same as when they’d been in Venice together.

It’s just the way she’s acting that’s odd, not like the Ilsa he remembers.

Almost like she can sense him staring at her, she turns back to face him, her expression more neutral.

When her eyes meet his, it’s almost like she can sense how he feels, because she reaches out to take his hand in hers, her thumb gently brushing his knuckles, the movement way too familiar.

Ilsa goes back to looking out the window, so Ethan looks around the café some more.

The uneasy feeling is still there, just simmering slightly.

So, it doesn’t surprise him as much as it should when he sees a figure with ashy-blonde hair walking towards the till, and saluting the young waiter there before she strolls out into the night.

Lindsey.

With his mouth slightly open, Ethan’s gaze follows her until she disappears around a corner, and out of his sight.

While he’s watching her, the food arrives, but he barely notices, he’s so lost in his thoughts.

Lindsey and Marie are both here.

So are his parents and Ilsa.

Just like Luther and Hunley.

Only when Ilsa gently tugs his hand does he manage to focus on what’s going on again.

She gives him a sympathetic look, leaning forwards to whisper to him.

“It’s okay. We’ll just eat quickly, and then I’ll drive you back home, alright?”

He nods, and Ilsa releases his hand, letting him pick up his cutlery and start eating the food in front of him.

He’s still feeling drowsy and confused when Ilsa pulls into the space across from his house, parking the car neatly.

“Okay. I’ll be working tomorrow, but if you want, we can take a walk together in the afternoon. I mean, under the condition that you actually get some rest now.”

He just nods, too tired to protest.

Ilsa gets out of the car, and he follows suit, just standing next to the now closed passenger door, feeling drained.

He hears her footsteps approaching, but only really notices her when she wraps her arms around him, tucking her face into his neck.

Automatically, he pulls her closer, engulfing her in a hug.

The sensation of her in his arms is the best thing he’s felt for a while.

He doesn’t want the moment to end, wants to hold her close forever, feel her warm breath on his neck as he gently runs his hand over her back, but still, after a moment Ilsa pulls away, looking up at him with a sad smile.

“Get some rest, okay? I mean it. I want you to feel better again.”

He nods.

“I’ll try.”

He can’t, he knows that.

Sure, the nightmares haven’t been finding him here, but he doesn’t feel like he’s getting any rest, more like he’s just missing a few hours between closing his eyes and opening them again.

As if she can read his thoughts, Ilsa’s expression falls slightly, her smile growing sadder as she leans closer.

For a stupid moment, Ethan thinks she’s going to kiss him.

It’s not like he wouldn’t want her to, he knows that.

He’s always had a certain kind of admiration for her, one that leaves his insides feeling warm and comfortable every time he sees her.

And yes, sure, she’s obviously a very attractive woman - he’d have to be blind to not have noticed that.

But still, for a moment, he thinks that she’s going to do it, she’s going to kiss him, before she moves to the side, her lips brushing his cheek in a barely there kiss.

“Just rest, okay? And come to the bookshop tomorrow. I’d like to see you.”

And with those words, she walks past him, climbing back into the driver’s seat and driving off, leaving Ethan standing out in the cold alone, a hand reaching out to touch the cheek where she’d kissed him.

Chapter Text

The sun is shining brightly into the house, casting an almost golden light that’s so bright, Ethan doesn’t even need to turn the lights on.

He’s made himself a cup of coffee, needing the familiar taste to remind him that he’s properly awake and the day has started.

The warm, solid feeling of the cup in his hands grounds him, and he takes another reassuring sip.

He still doesn’t feel like he managed to sleep much at all, more like he’d just closed his eyes after climbing into bed, and opened them again to sunshine a few hours later.

He’d even woken up in the same position he’d fallen asleep in.

So now he’s standing there in the kitchen, sipping his coffee, trying to make sense of everything that happened these past few days.

It’s not even like he doesn’t know what happened - it’s the reason behind it, the why, that confuses him.

He doesn’t understand what all these people are doing here, let alone why they aren’t acting like they should.

Admittedly, it’s been a long time since he last saw a lot of the people he’s seeing here, but nevertheless, there’s some people that he knows are different from how they should be.

Like Ilsa.

He doesn’t really want to admit it to himself, given that she seems to be the only real ally he has here, the only one that remembers what happened before he got here, but something in the way that she doesn’t seem like she’s willing or able to help him, and the way she pushes all his concerns to one side and seems irritated around him unsettles him deeply.

Of course, all that is less weird than how everyone else seems to not know anything that happened in his life, up until him being here.

It’s not normal, he knows that, because he remembers what happened before he woke up here, but still, he has to admit that doubt has slowly been creeping in.

He remembers things, sure, but why does nobody else, except for Ilsa?

Is everyone but them wrong?

Or are they the ones misremembering?

It might be us.

It’s been a while since he heard the little voice in his head, whispering quietly and making him doubt himself.

He’d been enjoying the time without it, being able to think and act freely without a snide whisper or a bolt of pain making him question his every move.

With a sigh, he touches a hand to his temples, gently pressing his fingers down as he moves along his scalp, trying to see if there’s anything there that shouldn’t be.

He should have done this earlier, he knows that, but he hadn’t really thought of it since the voice had been quiet and left him alone for the most part, only really making itself noticeable every now and then.

But no matter where he touches, there’s nothing there, no bump or scar that could mean that something was put in his head and is controlling the voice and the pain.

In a way, that’s a relief - it means that he’s not going to need to have a microexplosive or a chip removed like Julia had done in Xitang all those years ago.

But, that also means that he’s left without an explanation for what he’s feeling, and it might mean that he’s imagining everything.

He doesn’t really want to dwell on it, but the thoughts racing through his head don’t slow either way.

What if I am just imagining everything?

What if this is actually my life, and I’m the only one that has these memories?

What if…?

With a deep sigh, he drops his hand, letting it hang loosely by his side.

The lack of sleep is really getting to him.

It’s not like he’s not sleeping, or not trying to, but no matter what he does, he opens his eyes without feeling particularly rested, more like he just missed a few hours.

He’s spiraling, he knows that.

If only there was a way that he could get the feeling of actual sleep, the falling into bed exhausted and waking up feeling rested hours later, rather than whatever is happening here whenever he tries to sleep.

In theory, that could be another clue - maybe by sleeping, something will reveal itself?

But what could that be?

Could sleep be a time when someone’s or something’s control breaks or weakens?

Or is he just imagining things, and actually having troubles sleeping?

He should really go and talk to Ilsa.

She definitely knows more about what’s going on here than he does now, and she seems like she could help him.

But with the way she’s acting, is that really a good idea?

He tries to focus on his gut, see what it tells him, but he doesn’t feel anything.

It’s almost like there’s some external force that’s suppressing anything he can usually rely on, leaving him feeling burned out and off-kilter.

Or maybe he is just tired, like everyone’s been saying.

But, since sleeping won’t fix that, he has to rely on other ways.

So, he drains the last of his coffee, and turns back to the coffee machine, preparing a new cup.

It’s already late afternoon by the time Ethan makes it to Ilsa’s bookshop.

He’d drank almost five entire cups of coffee to try and make him feel more awake, but nothing had helped, so now he’s standing there, still feeling like he hasn’t slept in a week.

His hands are tucked into his pocket both because they’re trembling slightly and because there’s a cold wind, and a shiver runs down his back as he looks around, taking in the bleak, gray look of the buildings around him.

He doesn’t know if the town had always been this colorless or not, but something tells him that it was definitely brighter when he first woke up and came out here.

His thoughts are interrupted when another cold breeze swirls around him, somehow managing to get under his coat, cooling the skin there.

So, with a sigh, he steps closer to the door, pulling it open and entering the warm bookshop.

It still looks like he remembers it - well, similar enough.

The books lining the shelves are almost overwhelmingly colorful now, making him quickly turn his head away.

It’s almost like all the color from the town was sucked out and put into making the shop more colorful.

Everything seems too bright - the books, the carpet on the floor, the light shining from the ceiling, the shelves and posters.

It almost gives him a headache if he focuses too much, so he catches himself, and strides purposefully over to the till, where Ilsa should be.

And indeed, that’s where he finds her - flicking idly through a book as she sips from a cup of takeaway coffee next to her.

She looks up as he approaches, breaking out into a bright smile as she quickly sets down her book, coming out from behind the till and meeting him in a hug.

He gladly wraps his arms around her, her body comfortably warm in his arms.

“It’s good to see you” she whispers in his ear, her lips grazing his earlobe, reminding him of the way she’d kissed his cheek the night before.

The memory brings a blush to his cheeks, and he quickly tucks his face into her neck before she can notice.

They don’t pull apart for quite a while, instead just standing there, Ilsa running her fingers through the short hair at the back of Ethan’s neck as he cradles her in his arm, not wanting to let her go yet.

Eventually, Ilsa’s hands move to his shoulders, and she gently pushes him back while she takes a step back.

“Did you get some sleep?” She asks, her voice quiet and concerned.

He nods with a slight shrug, not quite managing to convince her.

She raises an eyebrow at him, her expression somewhere between judgement and disappointment as she sighs deeply, turning slightly away from him.

“I slept, I promise” Ethan explains hurriedly, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Her form visibly relaxes, and she leans into his touch.

“That’s good. Do you feel any better?”

He hesitates briefly, deciding that honesty is probably the best way to go at this.

“Not really. It doesn’t feel like I’m getting any sleep, even if I know that I am. Does that make sense? Like, I close my eyes and I know that in theory I fall asleep, but I just don’t feel rested, no matter how long I sleep for.”

Ilsa looks up at him, her blue eyes wide as she steps closer, cradling his face for a second before she pulls him into another hug.

“Oh, Ethan. I’m so sorry” she whispers into his ear, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders.

He mimics the move, pulling her tightly against him as he rests his head on her shoulder.

After a moment of hesitation at what to answer, he manages to choke out a “thank you”.

“Anytime” Ilsa answers quietly, dropping a small kiss by his ear so quickly that he almost thinks he imagined it.

She pulls back, still leaving a hand on his shoulder as she looks into his eyes, smiling somewhat sadly.

She catches herself quickly, her back straightening and a more composed look forming on her face.

“So, what brings you here?” She inquires.

Ethan shrugs, not really able to think of a good reason why he’s here.

If he had to name one, he guesses he’d probably just say that he wanted to see her.

He knows that he had some reason when he’d left his house, but he can’t seem to remember it - if it’s because of something making him forget or just the sheer exhaustion, he doesn’t know.

“Just… wanted to see you” he muses.

Ilsa nods, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“Do you want to go on a walk?” She asks.

“I mean, I don’t really have anything much going on right now, and I was probably just going to close the shop soon anyway - not many people going out, given the weather.”

“Sure” he answers quickly, any chance to spend some time talking to her, maybe even find out more about what’s going on here.

Her face brightens, and she gives him a quick pat on the shoulder.

“I’ll be right with you, I’m just going to grab my coat from the back.”

With that, she turns away, leaving him standing in the middle of the shop, staring after her.

Weirdly enough, it’s less cold as he and Ilsa walk along the streets of the town.

The sun is starting to set in the distance, the light becoming more golden with every passing minute.

They don’t really talk much at first, just wander along the streets towards the forest Ethan had seen in the distance the first time he’d tried to leave town.

Suddenly, Ilsa turns to face him, her eyes filled with worry.

“Do you think that you could tell me more about your problems with sleeping? Like, do you know what it might be, or anything?” She inquires.

Instantly, it’s like a dam has broken - Ethan can’t stop himself from talking, telling her everything about what he’d noticed that was off about this place, about how nobody else seems to remember anything that had happened in his life, about what he’s been feeling these past few days.

And she listens, only nodding encouragingly anytime he pauses for longer than a few seconds.

He’s so focused on talking that he doesn’t feel the pain slowly creeping in.

It’s only when he’s midway through detailing his encounter with Hunley that Ilsa suddenly stops, reaching out to cup his face in her hands.

“You’re bleeding” she murmurs quietly, removing her hands to rummage around in the pockets of her coat.

Ethan tentatively lifts a hand to his face, his fingers finding a damp spot under his nose.

When he pulls his hand away and looks at his fingers, they’re coated in thick, red blood.

He’s staring at the blood so intensely, trying to make sense of it, that he doesn’t even notice Ilsa carefully dabbing at his face, removing the blood pooling from his nose with gentle swipes.

“It’s alright, you just went out a bit too far” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else.

“What do you mean?” He asks quietly, staring at her with glassy eyes.

She lifts her gaze from his lips, locking eyes with him.

Still, she doesn’t answer, instead pocketing the blood-stained tissue and taking his hand in hers, pulling him back towards the town.

He follows along after a second, letting her warm hand guide him back towards the houses in the distance.

“Ilsa, what do you mean? I mean, about going out too far” he asks her, weirdly out of breath, despite not really moving at a fast pace.

“Hm? I think you’re just not supposed to go out too far” she suggests, not turning to face him, just pulling him along with her further.

“Well, then how come you can go out so far?”

She shrugs.

“Maybe I’m different. This is about you here - you’re supposed to get better. I shouldn’t have taken you out so far anyway, you need to rest.”

He considers her words for a while, long enough for her to direct them down Ethan’s street and to his house.

It makes him frown slightly, the way their walk out of town seemed to have taken such a long time, whereas their walk back home seemed to pass quickly.

Sure, he could probably attribute it to their conversation, but he’d been talking more and for longer whilst leaving town, so it can’t be that.

Yet another mystery of this place.

“Right” Ilsa says as they stand outside of his front door, finally facing each other.

“I’ll let you rest then, but if you want, you can finish what you were telling me earlier tomorrow, okay?”

He nods, making an agreeing noise.

She looks up at him, something almost hesitant in her eyes, before pulling him close into another hug.

He goes willingly, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and burying his nose into her hair.

His eyes burn slightly as he does so, if from exhaustion or unshed tears, he can’t tell.

For some reason, the only thing really on his mind is how if he is really in some kind of dream, it means Ilsa is dead.

When he does figure out what’s really going on, he might wake up and have really lost her.

Of course, there is always the small chance that she is secretly alive, and just hiding somewhere until everything is over.

Something inside him will always hold on to that hope.

Ilsa slowly extracting herself from his embrace pulls him back into the moment, and he opens his mouth only to shut it quickly, not wanting to protest and make her uncomfortable.

She smiles quickly at him, before leaning forwards, her lips finding his cheek exactly like they had the night before.

Just this time, Ethan doesn’t think, just turns his head enough for their lips to brush just for a second.

The regret hits him the moment it happens, and he pulls back instantly, with a quiet gasp.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that” he says quickly, his voice taking on a nervous tone.

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry” Ilsa argues quickly, not looking fazed at all.

“No, really, I shouldn’t have-“

She places a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, alright? Just get some sleep, think about it, and come find me tomorrow, okay?”

He nods, and she moves her finger from his face.

“Well, see you tomorrow then, alright?”

With that, she turns away, and starts walking towards her home, leaving Ethan standing in front of his door, cheeks flushed and lips tingling.

Chapter Text

He’s not usually one to avoid what he perceives to be his responsibility.

And right now, he knows that he has to talk to Ilsa about their kiss.

Ethan isn’t sure if he should regret it - even when he knew for sure that she was still alive, he’d already wanted to kiss her, so that at least is nothing new.

But now, when he isn’t sure what’s happening around him, he’s starting to doubt wether it was the right idea or not.

He should just to and talk to her about it - she’d said that he should get some sleep and come find her - but for some reason, he’s afraid to.

It’s not the possible rejection that scares him, he’s sure of that, or at least he thinks that he is.

Avoiding her won’t help, and though that fact is absolutely crystal clear to him, he’s still holed up at home.

He’d spent most of his morning trying to find an excuse not to go out, so now he’s taken inventory of all the food in the house (though undoubtedly that will change if he goes away for long enough) and sorted through his many lists again, discarding any unnecessary points and adding new things that occurred to him.

He’s even managed to finish the book Ilsa had given him.

It’s a good book, of course, but whenever he’s reading one of the books Ilsa have him, he feels like he’s missing something he should be picking up on.

But nothing seems to have any kind of deeper meaning - the cover stays the same no matter how you angle it in the light, there’s no extra pages or pages missing, no random numbers scrawled in the margins.

So, no obvious signs that anything might be up with it.

And, compared to the other book, the first one she’d given him, it doesn’t look like there are any notable similarities either.

Of course, if he reread them both, maybe he’d find something, a recurring theme or a specific choice of wording one might miss on the first read-through, but he doesn’t feel like wasting any more time.

Ironic, since that’s all he’d spent his morning doing.

But at least now he has a proper reason to go see Ilsa, he thinks, as he pockets Hard-Boiled Wonderland and shrugs on his shoes and coat, heading out the door.

It’s surprisingly cold outside.

Given that the weather had been quite nice when he’d first woken up here, with the days mostly being sunny and warm with a refreshing breeze, the sudden switch to autumnal temperatures seems odd.

Even the trees lining the river, which had been covered in shiny green leaves, only carry brown ones now, Ethan remarks as he crosses over the bridge and heads into town.

The walk from his house to Ilsa’s bookshop isn’t far by anyone’s definition, but it seems especially short now, though that might just be because he’s not looking forward to the conversation he’s about to have - well, not really.

Since he’s still hesitant about wether to believe that everything he’s experiencing here is really happening, he knows that he should value every minute with her.

But, alas, he doesn’t have much of a chance to dwell on what’s real and what isn’t, since the bookshop is already in sight.

So, he runs his fingers along the cover of the book in his pocket to ground him, and pushes the door to the bookshop open, slipping inside quickly.

The warm air inside the shop relaxes him instantly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he breathes in deeply, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Excuse me”, he hears a murmur, and turns to face the source of the words.

Paris, the assassin that had been working with Gabriel, manoeuvres past him and out of the door.

For a moment, he stands there, staring after her as she wanders over the street and into town.

She looks… different.

He can’t quite grasp what it is, if it’s something in her face, her hair, or just the way that she’s carrying herself - he just knows that something seems off.

But it’s too late now, because she’s already turning a corner and disappearing out of sight.

So, he gives himself a moment to catch himself again, and turns back towards the interior of the bookshop.

For some reason, it seems different, in the same way that seeing Paris had felt.

He doesn’t know if it’s something in the way the books are organized, or if the shelf layout has changed - or maybe something in the air?

Either way, there’s a sense of unease growing in his stomach as he steps closer to the counter where Ilsa usually is.

He doesn’t immediately see her, and it’s only after he softly calls out her name that she emerges from behind one of the shelves.

A bright smile forms on her face, and she walks towards him, wrapping him into a hug.

Almost naturally, he hugs her back, feeling her lashes brush his neck as she closes her eyes, sighing contently.

“It’s good to see you”, she murmurs, her thumb brushing his shoulder blade.

“You too”, he answers quietly.

Ilsa hums in agreement, before pulling back and straightening herself.

“Well Ethan, what brings you here today?”, she inquires.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should get straight to the point and talk about their kiss, or not.

In the end, he decides against it, instead reaching into his pocket and pulling out the book, angling it towards her.

“I finished the book you gave me”, he explains as she takes it from him, examining the book with a somewhat confused expression.

“A few days ago”, he adds.

“Ah.”

She hands it back to him, and her face takes on a pensative expression.

“Do you want another one?”, she asks.

For a second, Ethan just wants to scream.

He doesn’t understand why everything here feels so wrong, why not even sleeping makes him feel properly awake, why nobody here is giving him straight answers.

He knows that something is up, knows it for a fact, because if everything was normal and all the people here were the exact same as he knows that they would care a lot more when he tells them that he feels like something’s wrong.

And yet nobody, not even Ilsa, seems to care that he knows this, or be willing to give him even w hint as to why everything feels so strange.

He must have zoned out quite far with this train of thought, because it’s only the sound of Ilsa clearing her throat that pulls him back into the moment.

She’s looking at him expectantly, an eyebrow raised.

“Sorry”, he mumbles.

“But sure, I’ll take another book.”

“Great!”, Ilsa answers, spinning around and marching over to one of the shelves, pushing around books as it she knows exactly what she’s looking for.

After a moment, she seems to find it, because she grins, and grabs a book wedged between old paperbacks.

“Here you go”, she says cheerfully, handing her find to him.

“Foe. I hope you’ll like it.”

“Thanks”, he murmurs, pocketing the book before realising that he hasn’t paid for it.

“Oh, Ilsa, how much is the book?”

She tilts her head, her expression confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how much does it cost? How much do I owe you - I didn’t pay for the first two books either.”

Ilsa throws her head back with laughter, like he said something outlandish.

“Oh, don’t be silly! You don’t need to pay for these books! We have you in town so rarely, so let us treat you!”

Something about the way she says it scares Ethan more than anything else he’s seen in his time here.

“Oh- … okay.”

She smiles brightly at him, shaking her head fondly.

They’re both silent for a moment, and Ethan sees his chance.

“Ilsa, we need to talk about what happened yesterday.”

“Sure”, she says, leaning back against the counter, seemingly not bothered by his change of topic.

He stays silent for a moment, contemplating how to phrase it.

“Right. So last night, when you brought me home-“

He pauses for a moment, hesitant.

“We kissed”, Ilsa finishes.

“Yeah.”

She looks at him expectantly, but when he doesn’t say anything, she continues.

“Call it an accident or call it something intentional, whatever. What’s your point? Why are you bringing it up now?”

“Well, I just… wanted to know if we’re on the same page with everything. Because I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good friendship by trying to turn it into a relationship.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“I didn’t mind you kissing me. And I don’t think you did either.”

She has a point, he knows that.

He would have liked to kiss her at a better time though, maybe back in Venice when he was absolutely certain that whatever he experienced was actually happening.

“I didn’t - I don’t”, he admits, not quite meeting her eyes.

“But I just don’t want to risk our friendship because of one kiss. Even if we both enjoyed it.”

That, paired with the fact that he knew that by making his relationship with Ilsa more than just a temporary partnership, he’d be putting her in danger, had always been the main thing holding him back from just throwing all caution in the wind and kissing her.

They’d had many, many opportunities - the opera in Vienna, in her safehouse in Casablanca, in London after catching Lane, Kashmir, the desert, Venice - but they’d never used them, never acted on any thoughts or feelings they might have.

To Ethan, that just meant that they’d both accepted that by just staying colleagues, they’d be keeping the other person safe and stopping anyone from being able to use their connection to cause harm.

He’d always assumed that Ilsa felt the same way as he did on the matter, but with how she’s talking now, he’s starting to have some doubts.

But now, she’s looking at him, shaking her head as he speaks.

“It wouldn’t-“

She cuts off sharply, turning to the side and averting her eyes.

“It wouldn’t ruin our friendship. I- It wouldn’t.”

The way she’s saying it seems like she’s being insincere, which instantly causes alarm bells to toll in Ethan’s head.

“Ilsa?”, he asks quietly, stepping closer, a hand twitching forward as if trying to touch her shoulder, just to hesitate before it reaches her.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

For a moment, she looks back at him, her eyes filled with desperation.

Her mouth opens, but she hesitates just long enough for the door of the bookshop to open loudly, making them both jump.

Whoever came in doesn’t seem to need either of them instantly, instead wandering over to one of the shelves, their back turned towards the two spies standing by the counter.

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t be able to figure out by yourself”, Ilsa whispers to him hurriedly, firmly shoving the book into his hands before she confidently walks over to the new arrival.

“Mr. Kittridge”, she starts in a cheerful tone, using the time he needs to turn towards her to indicate towards the door.

Hurriedly, Ethan pockets the book, and is out of the door before Kittridge notices him.

He stands outside the door, the book in his hands, for quite some time.

His head is spinning too much for him to dare to move.

Everything about this interaction with Ilsa had felt wrong to him - from her almost forced jollity when he’d first arrived over her inability to answer him and up to Kittridge’s arrival.

Something is wrong, he knows that, but he just can’t figure out how to act with Ilsa.

He’s not sure if she’s his ally or not, or if she’s part of whatever this is or not.

But one thing that he is sure of now, the thing that he knows with absolute certainty, is that he has to figure out what’s going on here quickly.

So that means no more messing around, no more mindless wandering through town, no more time wasted talking to people from all over his life.

He needs to get thinking.

But, most importantly, he knows that he needs to get home and read the book Ilsa had given him.

With the way she’d thrust it at him, and how she’d seemingly known instantly which book to give him, he’s almost entirely sure that they must be clues.

What for - he’ll figure that out.

So, he briskly starts wandering towards his house, but stops suddenly before he reaches the bakery.

Zoey, the baker he’d seen on his first day in town, is in the front by the counter, and waving at him with a broad smile.

So, not wanting to be rude, he jogs up the steps and into the shop, keeping a firm hand on the book in his pocket to stop it from falling out.

“Hey Ethan!”, Zoey exclaims happily, grinning at the sight of him.

“It’s good to have you back!”

For some reason, the simple phrase awakens a deep unease in Ethan, but he still forces a smile at the young baker.

“Nice to be back.”

They smile at each other for a bit longer, Zoey’s a genuine one, Ethan’s forced and uncomfortable.

Finally, she takes mercy on him, and lets the corners of her mouth drop to a more normal place, albeit still in an unsettling grin.

“I made a batch of your favorite biscuits again, since you’re back in town. It’s so rare that we get to see you - makes it special! But I’m sure you’ve been pretty celebrated by the town these past few days, hm?”

“Oh… thanks.”

Zoey reaches under the counter, and pulls out a small brown paper bag.

“Here you go. Enjoy!”

“Thanks.”

He takes the bag from her, removing the book from his pocket and placing it on the counter, so that he can tuck the biscuits safely in his pocket.

“Foe? That’s interesting”, Zoey comments, pulling the book closer and scanning the title.

“Very on the nose, if you’re asking me, but whatever.”

Ethan looks up at her - for the first time since his arrival here, she’s not wearing an uncanny grin, instead sporting a more sincere expression.

“What do you mean with on the nose? On the nose how?”

For a second, Zoey looks at him with a lost expression, before a grin settles back onto her face.

“Oh, you’ll see. But you should probably get going, don’t you think? Looks an awful lot like it’s going to storm later, and you wouldn’t want to get caught in that, hm?”

With that, the conversation seems finished, and she pushes the book towards him with the same grin she’d been wearing when she’d waved him in.

So, he pockets it, gives her an awkward wave goodbye, and steps outside just as the forecasted rain begins.

At 3 am, bleary eyed and tired, Ethan sets down the book on the coffee table next to him, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

For a second, he stays still, unsure of what to do next, before he grabs a sheet of paper and a pen, and scrawls down a few words.

He then takes his glass, flicking on the lights on his way to the kitchen, where he refills it, drinks all the water in it, and repeats the action.

Only then does he return to the living room, and sit down on the couch as he takes the paper he’d just written on in shaky hands, reading over his notes.

Third time lucky does seem to be the charm - it was only with the third book that it all made sense to him.

So now, he’s got three hints.

Things aren’t what they seem.

You need to find out what is real.

Because this here? It isn’t.