Work Text:
February 2018
Subtly Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky tried to slouch a little in his seat without making it obvious he was doing so. He was dressed in full, dark, dress uniform, with his peaked cap respectfully resting in his lap. The only outward appearance that all might not be as it appeared with him was the simple black walking stick that was also tucked between his legs. He didn’t usually need one any more, except that the ceremonial aspects of this trip meant there was a danger of being trapped standing around for hours at a time. The stick was a cover, and offered him the opportunity to ask for a seat should he need it.
He’d been back at work for three or four months now, part time, light duties only, but even that was tiring. The cancer was gone but the effects of both it, and the invasive treatment, still lingered within him. But the more that time had gone on the easier things had become and, as long as he didn’t overdo things, he now felt almost like himself again, albeit a little older.
It had been a kindness for the current Commander of the Fleet to send him on this diplomatic mission. It wasn’t particularly arduous; fly to London, get dressed up and sit in a cold cathedral for a few hours in the company of anyone who was anyone in the UK forces and a couple of Royals, all whilst trying to pretend that the Bishop’s droning on and on wasn’t sending him to sleep. But, although boring, it would earn him brownie points both with the brass at home and with the Brits, and it did him good to be seen to be up and about and well. This funeral would go a long way to getting his career back up and running ready for when he returned back to full duties in a few months time.
Plus, he’d been tasked with pulling aside one or two of his British counterparts for a quiet word on one or two international policy issues which were taking ages to negotiate through proper channels. Useful things, funerals. Efficient at getting all of the right people into the same room with no expectations of any particular outcome. It was a shame that they couldn’t be arranged ahead of time, or to anyone’s particular schedule.
An outbreak of muttering snapped Ice’s attention back to the proceedings at the front of the cathedral and his eyes took a moment to land on the cause of it, but when they did Ice froze.
Maverick Mitchell, or should he say Ethan Hunt, his wingman, friend and brother-in-law had emerged from the left-hand aisle of the cathedral and was walking purposefully into the centre of the room, hand to his ear.
“‘Cause I’m being followed.” He said, just loud enough that Ice was able to hear.
As he was on the end of a row - another concession to his health - Ice was able to glance behind him back down the central aisle towards the front doors, the direction in which Ethan was looking. Low and behold, a group of thuggish looking men were approaching, their gazes fixed on Ethan as though he were their prey. He glanced back at his friend.
Ethan crossed the central rotunda, right in front of the coffin as though he belonged there.
“I don’t know, CIA, Apostles, what difference does it make?” He said as he walked, looking a little desperate.
By now everyone in the assembled congregation had taken notice. The Bishop stopped in his tracks, looking slightly appalled at the interruption. Ethan stopped again, turned around. He looked trapped and reckless. Ice glanced around. There were men in both of the left and right aisles, advancing cautiously and another, larger group coming up the aisle next to him.
Ethan began to hold up his hands and for an awful, plummeting moment Ice thought that his wingman might be surrendering. He held his breath and silently willed Mav to pull off something impossible. He was turning, scoping out the exits, calculating his chances. It was an expression Ice recognised of old; concentration mixed with just a hint of recklessness. Maverick was about to make his move.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Mav said, addressing the congregation as he turned on the spot, "excuse me.”
And then he set off running, out to the right-hand side of the altar and off into the bowels of the church. The hunters all set off in pursuit in an instant. Ice picked his moment, waited until he got tone on his enemy and then stuck his stick out into the aisle.
There was an almighty crash as one of Ethan’s pursuers tripped over it and face-planted against the cold stone tiles. Ice chuckled as some of the others were forced to leap frog their fallen comrade in an awkward attempt not to become tripped themselves. Then the first man scrambled up and followed, limping, after the others. It was only a small act, and not particularly effective in terms of scale, but Ice hoped that his actions would buy his friend some small moment of grace. After all, the odds had been reduced from eleven against one to a mere ten, plus one with a limp. Not greatly improved but he’d seen Mav do more with less.
Chattering broke out across the hall as soon as those involved in the chase moved out of sight and the security guards and policemen who had been stationed at the entrances finally caught on to what had happened. The Royals were surrounded by their bodyguards. Someone rushed over and saluted Ice.
“Are you alright Admiral?” They asked, concerned. It was one of his own aides who had been sitting closer to the back, out of the way.
Ice nodded. “My stick slipped. I’m fine.” He tried not to sound too gleeful.
Gradually the atmosphere in the room returned to something more resembling calm, under the stern direction of the Bishop and only then did the funeral resume. Ice slid his phone surreptitiously out of his pocket and sent one brief text to his friend.
Mav. Whatever it is that you are currently doing in London, I don’t want to know about it.
Ice smiled to himself, slipped his phone back into his pocket and went back to his normal, boring life. And then, a couple of days later, his phone alerted him to a response. Ethan’s emergency SOS beacon had gone off in Kashmir. On the edge of a cliff, alone, Ethan needed help.