Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

April, 2000

After such a terrible year for the IMF, it was good to finally have a win.

Kittridge knew the agents around the room might not consider it as such at the minute, beaten and bloodied as most of them were after their latest operation, but with so many key players now taken off of the board things could only be looking up for them. Even more so if the board could be rearranged entirely, as he was hoping it might be. 

"Barbaric-looking thing, isn't it?" his second-in-command commented from beside him, cutting off Kittridge's train of thought before he could get completely wrapped up in his plans for the spoils of war. 

The interruption was a welcome one. Tempering his expectation was a skill he'd honed a long time ago, but today, in the face of such potential, it was especially challenging. 

Looking down at the equipment in question, Kittridge hummed an affirmative. Describing it as a chair didn't do it justice; it would be like calling a machete a butter knife. Restraints were built into the arms, and the headrest was framed by metal panels and electrodes that didn't spell anything good for the person trapped in the seat. The silver plating was discoloured in places, hooked up to a power supply, blackened by the heat of repeated use.

"Make sure it's packed up along with the rest," Kittridge continued after a beat. "If this is what we think it is, we're going to want to make sure that it remains in the hands of the IMF alone."

Barbaric as it was, it was not an unexpected discovery. When Max had pointed them in the direction of this operation, she had at least done them the courtesy of warning them of what they might find. Perhaps it was a warning that Kittridge should have taken more seriously, given the good agents that he'd lost in the process of securing this place, and the several others that were now left injured, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret any of his decisions. 

The agent– asset– whatever– that they'd managed to recover alive was enough to justify the cost of their operation all by himself, even if it only ended up being the biotech team that benefited from his acquisition. There was no way that a normal man could have done the damage that the agent had done with his bare hands. 

"What are we doing about the three we captured?" asked his second, following Kittridge's gaze across to the truck that the agent had been secured in.

"Put Phelps and his wife into custody," Kittridge replied. "I want them interrogated ASAP. We need to know everything, from Phelps' sudden return to life right up to the present day."

"And the, uh, other one?"

"Keep him separate. I want to see how he reacts without them around. Hopefully we can even get a read on what they did to make him act like that."

The two of them stood for a moment in silence. With only a subtle glance towards his second, Kittridge could tell that the other man was mulling something over.

"Even if this agent was previously IMF," Frank finally spoke up, "people are going to want justice for his actions, over these past years and for his work just now. He–"

"He took out half the team and didn't even break a sweat, it doesn't matter what justice people want. And you saw how the two of them were directing him. Imagine what we could do with that kind of brutal efficiency on our side. Hell, we've seen firsthand the potential of such an asset during these long months of him working against us."

Silence hung between the two of them, only broken by those working around them.

"...He'll need a firm handle. You remember what he was like, before all this. Who knows what they were doing to get him to cooperate."

Kittridge scoffed. "You think I don't realise that? Don't mistake my willingness to let him off the hook for a few unfortunate deaths as me going soft on an old agent."

There was another pause before Frank spoke up again. "Of course," he murmured, no longer looking at Kittridge directly. "No, of course, you're right. I don't think any part of this will be seen as us going soft on the man."

Kittridge didn't need to turn around to know what Frank was staring at. The chair was a dark presence in the room, one that could never be fully ignored. 

"Good," he said instead of acknowledging anything aloud. "We're going to have our work cut out for us, you understand."

Frank closed his eyes, expression twisting, and for a moment Kittridge thought he might speak out in disagreement. He wasn't sure whether it was hope or dread that spiked his heart rate at the thought of it, of being told that this was finally a line too far. 

Disagreement never came. 

"Yes," Frank said, face falling into something like resignation. "I understand."

Chapter Text

Winter, 1996

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ethan asked quietly.

Claire frowned from where she was sat on the safehouse floor, the hand she’d reached up towards him faltering. 

“Tell you what?” Her voice was hurt, confused. Once, Ethan would have fallen for it, and as it was he found it tugging at his heart still. But right then he found that this didn't matter. Jim had arranged the deaths of the rest of his team and let him take the fall for it, and he had no idea if Claire had had a part of it. She’d certainly survived to hire Krieger, the same man who’d killed Sarah.

Maybe she was innocent in this. Maybe she’d survived because she was Jim’s wife and so he’d found some sort of affection towards her that he hadn’t for the rest of them. Maybe it was just a coincidence that she’d hired Krieger - maybe she and Jim had worked with him on a previous job and they’d both decided to hire him independently.

But there was a furious sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him that this wasn’t a coincidence. And he knew there was no way he’d be able to lie down beside her while the ice cold rage that came with Jim’s betrayal coursed through his veins.

“Tell me what you and Jim were planning,” he replied, settling himself calmly down on the floor across from her, feeling himself wondering at the fact that that within a space of half an hour he was once again using every inch of his acting skills to lie to someone he’d never once dreamed of deceiving. Still, if he wasn’t very careful about what he said, he wouldn’t get the answers he needed.

Claire laughed nervously. “Ethan, what are you talking about?”

“About your plan to make money. If you’d just told me in the first place I would have helped you.”

“Ethan?” She was looking at him in a way that was obviously meant to convey that he was being weird and she was concerned about him.

“Come on,” he pressed. “What did Jim tell you about my life before I joined the IMF?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Your parents were dairy farmers. You really liked acting and languages and martial arts, and anything exciting that would get you away from the farm. You’ve said before that Jim saw your potential and didn’t want you wasting your life in cinema.”

She fixed him with a flat look, her eyebrows raised.

“So he didn’t tell you about the jewellery theft, about Marie’s death,” Ethan countered seriously. It didn’t matter right then that it had been Gabriel who’d done the stealing, that Ethan hadn’t known until it was too late, and that Gabriel had killed her just to see the grief on Ethan’s face. It also didn’t matter that a part of his body that he was strenuously ignoring felt sick at the comparisons. What mattered is that she might draw the right conclusions. “If you had just told me, then I would have helped you.”

Claire frowned, and internally a part of Ethan seemed to relax - her confusion seemed genuine now, not a ploy to manipulate him. “So, what are you thinking will happen now?”

“Tomorrow, I think I’ll get the money from Max, and then I think you, me and Jim will be free to get as far away from the IMF as we want.”

“Jim’s dead, Ethan. You saw him die.” Her eyes were wide, full of hurt, and Ethan was sure neither of them were convinced.

“Both of us know I just met him at the station.”

Claire frowned at him, calculating. Cold. “I thought you cared about Jack, and Hannah, and Sarah.”

She wanted a reaction out of him. Ethan tried not to give her one, but couldn’t hide the wince. Okay, so he needed to lean into that. “I did. I still do, you know I do. But you know I care about you and Jim more. You know Jim’s been like a father to me since mine died. And you know- you must know- what I feel about you. And, I thought, you might feel the same way.”

Ethan swallowed, trying not to think about the extent of how true that statement was, or had been. Any feelings he’s once had for Claire now felt tainted. Poisoned. And the fact that he’d once been grateful for Jim’s guidance, and relished the moments he’d received his approval, now made him feel sick. Perhaps they had been slightly more important to him than the rest of the team, but he’d loved the rest of his team like they were his own family - certainly more than he loved his uncle Donald - and he would never have chosen money over their lives and the lives of countless other field agents. He knew for certain that, had he known what Jim and Claire were really like, he’d never have thought they mattered more to him than the rest of the team.

But, there must have been something about his words that was convincing enough for Claire, because a warmer and more genuine smile slipped over her face.

“You know my husband might have something to say about that,” she grinned, raising her eyebrows.

“You think he doesn’t already know?”

She grinned wider, dangerous, and Ethan felt sick to his stomach.

But still, he’d got his answer. And he knew he’d won. Or would win on the train tomorrow anyway.

There was no way he would let them get away with what they’d done to Jack, Sarah and Hannah.

As he heard the click of the safety behind him, Ethan began to think he might have miscalculated, and that he should have put on the glasses on his way to the baggage car.

He raised his hands.

“Jim.”

“Claire seems to think you’re on our side, Ethan.”

The condescending tilt to his head made Ethan’s blood boil, but he couldn’t show how much he wanted to punch him, not yet. 

“I am.”

The door behind him opened, the clack of heels told Ethan that Claire had arrived in the carriage. He tensed further.

“You don’t have it in you,” Jim scoffed, “I’ve seen you come down from enough goddammed ceilings so you don’t have to hurt any poor old security guard to know that.”

Ethan swallowed, and didn’t let himself think too much about the next words out of his mouth. “You’re the only people I have left.”

His former mentor’s expression suddenly turned assessing. Ethan tried to focus on that instead of the gun he was pointing at him.

“Well, I suppose that’s true enough,” Jim replied after several long seconds, a smirk on his lips. “No friends outside of us, no decent relationship with your family anymore.” 

Ethan couldn’t help but look away, gritting his teeth. In another life, one where it hadn’t been easier to just keep running from mission to mission after his father’s death, maybe he could have repaired the relationship with his family that the cancer had left in shards, maybe he wouldn’t have hid behind the excuse of not being able to talk to his mom about the Choice he’d made, maybe he wouldn’t have kept thinking that there would be ‘later’ where he could make everything right.

Life seemed to get a lot clearer when your mentor was pointing a gun at you.

“What’s the code for the case?” Jim asked.

“3, 1, 4.” There was no use arguing, they’d get into the case one way or another, and it was best to be cooperative for the moment.

“Figures,” Jim replied.

Ethan waited, listening to the clatter of the wheels on the tracks and letting his body sway from side to side, half watching Jim and the gun, half watching Claire open the case and reveal the 10 million inside. She closed it and turned the dials to 0 0 0 again.

“Well Ethan-” As he began bracing himself to spring for Jim in a last ditch and likely fatal attempt to overpower him, he hoped that when he was found with a bullet hole in his chest, and Luther told Kittridge that Claire was alive, that they’d track her down, and they’d track down Jim too, that they’d be brought to justice for killing his team- “I can’t say I trust you, but my wife seems to think you’ll be useful and I can’t say she’s wrong there.” Ethan put his plan on hold and waited. “But know that if you show an inkling of betraying us, or running off with our money, or touching my wife without my permission, I will kill you. And I will make it hurt.”

He felt a shiver, involuntary, wrack through his body. But still, he nodded. “I understand.”

They climbed out onto the roof - Claire first, then Ethan, then Jim. Then they stood there, stumbling in the high winds and vibrations of the train, and Ethan watched in horror as a line descended, Claire attached herself to it, and slowly climbed up into the helicopter. Surely, someone on the train would notice this. Surely, Kittridge would come.

The seconds ticked by and Jim was still standing out of reach, gun pointed steady at him despite the swaying of the roof, the handle of the briefcase hung over one wrist. Surely, the IMF would interrupt this.

But they didn’t, and the next thing Ethan knew he was attaching himself to the line and hauling himself upwards, feet slipping on the rungs of the rope ladder. He was getting himself into a helicopter with the people who had crushed Jack at the top of the elevator. His friend Jack, who always tried to play everything so cool, but got excited at every illegal piece of tech they came across. He’d died. Horribly. For money.

As he hauled himself over the side of the helicopter, he hoped that Claire and Krieger would think he was shaking with exhaustion instead of ice cold rage.

When he looked up, Claire was pointing another gun at him. Claire, who must have been the one to blow up Hannah. Someone who was meant to be her friend. He’d lost count of the times he’d seen them giggling over some gossip magazine together while he, Jack and Sarah had shrugged and rolled their eyes at each other. He didn’t understand how she could have done it, how anyone could pretend to be someone’s friend - or could maybe actually be someone’s friend and then do that. The betrayal was a jagged gouge through his chest, ripping him open and leaving an inferno in his wake.

“... even think about doing anything stupid,” Kreiger yelled, turning his head back slightly, so he could see him while still keeping half an eye on the controls, still managing to hold the machine steady over the high speed train. Ethan couldn’t actually hear him over the whir of the helicopter blades, but he could read his lips well enough, even from where he was kneeling on the floor. “You hurt me and we all die, even you.”

As he kept his gaze locked on the man who had stabbed a blade into Sarah’s chest over and over - Sarah who he’d left to try and help Jim, Sarah who he hadn’t been around to save - Ethan thought he didn’t much care. He’d gladly send himself into a fiery death if he knew the blaze would take Krieger, Claire, Jim and their money.

Unfortunately, all he could do was clench his jaw and pour all his hatred into the glare he directed at Kreiger, because Jim was still climbing up into the helicopter, and Jim had continued holding onto the money, and if he was gonna kill them all he’d make damn sure Jim was the most dead of them all.

Why hadn’t Kittridge noticed an entire helicopter hovering over the train he was on? Why hadn’t anyone else, and alerted someone? Was Krieger really that good at flying? Was the noise of the TGV really enough to drown out the helicopter blades?

He ground his teeth together hard enough that he thought they’d crack.

Before Jim arrived, Claire made another gesture with the gun. He nodded mutely and complied, placing his hands behind his head, and remained kneeling on the floor, seething at the fact he’d allowed himself to get into this situation. If only he’d put the glasses on earlier, then Jim wouldn’t be shoving the case through the door and scrambling in after it.

The case whose code was 3 1 4.

Jim shoved the door closed behind him, took his gun out his holster, and pointed it at Ethan’s head. Ethan wished that the cable had snapped and that he’d fallen, that he’d smashed his skull in the fields below instead of standing there, with the slight smile of a man who knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d won.

He’d murdered people who’d trusted him with their lives. For money.

It was only the slight hope that came with the knowledge that they hadn’t killed him yet that stopped Ethan from his last ditch and definitely suicidal attempt to kill Jim himself. While they hadn’t killed him, there was still a chance.

Out of the corner of his vision, Claire was moving, rifling through a black bag and taking a case out of it. Ethan shut his eyes. He knew what that was. The drug inside it was guaranteed to knock anyone out, and the side effects weren’t pretty. But while they were going to use it on him there was hope. There was still hope.

He let Claire slide the needle into his neck, and in the last seconds of consciousness wished he could slide poison into her veins.

Ethan woke to the feeling of a sharp pain snapping through his head.

He shook his head roughly, trying to figure out what was happening. The floor seemed to be shaking, rocking from side to side. Everywhere was noisy.

He tried to curl up, to cover his ears and the agony in his head with his arms and hands. His arms wouldn’t move. When he pulled at them a sharp pain seemed to cut at his wrists and the muscles along his arms and in between his shoulder blades screamed in protest.

Something was wrong.

He opened his eyes.

It was too bright.

He tried to move his arms again.

He opened his eyes. Squinted. His head hurt. There was a rhythmic thrumming-cutting sound. His whole body was shaking. He wanted to be sick. The floor rocked again. His ankles wouldn’t separate, but he curled his knees to his chest.

There was something silver on the ground in front of him. He turned his body to look upwards and saw legs. People. There were two people above him. He couldn’t see their faces but they were angry. They were arguing with a third head. The floor rocked again. His head pounded. He felt the taste of bile in his mouth. He tried to open his mouth but there seemed to be something in it, fabric, cutting into the sides of his mouth. His cheeks hurt. He wanted to tell them to make it stop. His head hurt. His muscles shook.

He looked up at the people again. Jim. Jim and Claire. His-

His-

They’d-

A sharp pain spread through his chest as his heart hammered, a coldness through his arms and legs. They’d killed- They’d killed his friends. Crushed, detonated, stabbed. Jack, Hannah, Sarah. He opened his mouth to try and scream at them, to ask why the money in the silver case was better than his friends, but the fabric cut into his mouth and the whir whir whir sound was too loud.

Ethan tried to roll. He had to stop them, even if his legs and arms didn’t want to go anywhere he told them.

His head thunked against something. Silver. Metal.

The metal briefcase.

The floor rocked again - the helicopter. He was on the floor of the helicopter and the case had fallen on his head. Case combination: 3 1 4. He looked up. Jim and Claire were still arguing with- with Krieger.

The briefcase with the money - the money they’d got because they wanted to sell the list, and to get the list they needed to kill Sarah, Hannah and Jack. He hated them. He hated their money. They shouldn’t have it.

The case with the money was next to him. The numbers showed 0 0 0.

Carefully, he rolled onto his face and then his other side, his bound hands were behind him but now next to the case. He managed to convince his fingers to click through the numbers. Three times, one time, four times. Clicked the button next to them to open the lock. There was a gap in the case.

Ethan twisted his body again, looked up. Jim and Claire were still angry at Krieger. They had to stand close to him to yell at him because the helicopter blades were loud. They had not seen what he’d done.

The helicopter rolled again. Krieger was not paying enough attention to the controls.

Good.

Ethan hated them, hated them with a cold fire stronger than he’d hated anyone with before, even- even Gabriel.

They would not get the money.

His fingers did not want to obey him. The bonds cut into his wrists, but still he managed to scrabble the paper out the case, to grab it by the edge and scrunch it between his fingers so he could carry all the sheets to the door together.

He looked up. They weren’t watching him. Too bad.

Slowly, he shuffled himself into a sitting position and moved his way towards the door. His head spun. He didn’t want to be upright. Everything hurt. His stomach told him he wanted to be sick.

He wanted them to lose everything even more - like Ethan had lost everything, like Hannah and Sarah and Jack had lost everything. So. They would lose the money. No matter what Ethan’s body said.

He kept his eyes on them as he inched back towards the door. Once his back hit it he twisted his body around, seeing where the handle was. He’d opened this kind of door before. He knew what to do.

His feet didn’t like it, but he got himself into a crouch. Jim still wasn’t looking. He stood up, sheets of money clutched in one hand, found the door catch with the other, twisted it, pulled forward with all his weight.

There was a rush of air. The scream of helicopter blades was deafening. Ethan leaned backwards and opened his hands.

Jim grabbed him, hauled him back inside and flung him against the wall. Pain flared through his head and his arms and his back. But they couldn’t have their money, couldn’t ever have their money that they’d killed his friends for, because Ethan had let it go. The wind would take it away and they wouldn’t get it back.

Ethan grinned at them.

Jim shoved the door closed and turned back to face him, expression incandescent in a way that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Movement caught his eye, Claire was looking down at the case, looking up at him in a fury that Ethan found funny even when she sprung at him, screaming, wrapping her hands around his neck. There was nothing he could do to defend himself, not with his wrists and ankles bound, but Ethan hardly cared.

Then Jim was pulling her off and Ethan could breathe again, but he was laughing, joy and relief fizzing through him even though he knew Jim was going to kill him himself. He continued to laugh even when Jim slammed him back into the window, head cracking against reinforced glass, teeth cutting into his tongue, lights spinning in front of his eyes.

Pain blossomed in his jaw as Jim punched him, and Ethan crashed against the back seats before falling to the floor, head spinning, still triumphant.

He continued grinning even when Jim’s boot came flying towards his face, connecting with his skull, sending the world into a blaze of pain.

The world went back.