ANOTHER NAME

PART IV

Agent Emma Hume rose out of the sea like Aphrodite at her birth.

She walked up the golden sand, twisting her long, dark, wet hair into a knot, stretching her taut stomach and lifting her cleavage up tantalising.

It's not for you, Agent Brandt reminded himself. You're working. So is she.

Their mark was sitting a few yards away with his latest conquest, watching the whole show. They needed to borrow his face for a few days, and take him back to the US to face trial for money laundering. His name was Massimo Arouet, an American of Italian and French descent, and he had a penchant for having affairs with married women. Around his neck were all the rings he'd stolen from his collection of adulteresses.

There was a rumour that he had a bracelet of teeth as well, from jealous husbands who'd picked a fight and lost to Arouet's mute bodyguard, but no one had confirmed that story yet.

Brandt twisted his wedding ring on his finger, unfamiliar with the feel of it. When Benji had issued it to him at IMF's tech division, he half expected it to feature a tracking device, or garrotting wire, or even an explosive device. Nope, Benji told him bemusedly, it was just a normal gold ring, as was Hume's, no different from the genuine article Benji sported with happy pride these days.

He held out his left hand to help his 'wife' sit down gracefully next to him on their beach towel. She smiled happily at him when he didn't let go of her hand, and squeezed his fingers gently.

After the years of estrangement, it was a relief to work with Emma again, a relief to find her mostly healed and still healing from her many scars, on the skin and deep below, and a relief that it felt so easy to play out this charade. It was only a few months since fighting their way out of the New Mexico facility together, her driving like a maniac across the dry terrain whilst he shot the wheels out of their tail, and they had both been busy. IMF agents didn't exactly Skype each other outside the office to catch up.

Despite his bizarre taste in jewellery, Arouet had very good taste in vacation spots: they were at the Royal Palm Hotel on the island of Mauritius. Arouet had kicked out the previous occupant of the Royal Suite, which cost nearly seven thousand dollars a night at peak time. Brandt and Hume were masquerading as newly-weds Mr and Mrs Byrd, he a Wall Street executive, and she a Manhattan socialite, the recent occupiers of one of the Garden suites, a stone's throw away from the two-storey Royal Suite. Before they'd even gotten off the plane, their fellow team members were already there, had linked them into the hotel's server, had set up cameras in and around the Royal Suite, placed some microphones in the suite itself, and hoped that Arouet wouldn't check, and if he did, that Benji's time in R&D had paid off.

Agents Seame and Thurar had arrived ahead of Arouet, the former undercover as a British playboy escaping a dull life of responsibility in the bars of Mauritius, and the latter employed as a waiter assigned to the night shift for the Royal Suite. Seame, in between flirting with anything that moved, was studying every last one of Arouet's mannerisms: it was he who was going to be borrowing Arouet's face after all.

It was Brandt and Hume's first full day at the Royal Palm Hotel, and already Hume had made quite an impression: the moment they checked in, Arouet swanned past with the concierge complaining about the breeze. The sight of Hume taking her sunglasses off and flicking her hair as she arrived in the hotel lobby on Brandt's arm had stopped him in his tracks, and Brandt heard him inquire who they were, who she was. Another agent might have been proud that she was working her magic already; Brandt knew Hume better. She had initially refused the mission based purely on what she would have to do, 'whoring herself' as she put it. She only changed her mind when Brandt reminded her he'd be there the whole time, that he had her back. Someone else's pride would not make her feel any better about what she was doing. This wasn't what she had in mind when she scouted for a job at IMF five years ago.

Getting her assigned had been somewhat of a chore, which had surprised Brandt. Originally, trusting no one else more, he had selected her as his only female option. She had the potential to be Arouet's only weak point, as much as he'd prefer not to use this weakness, remembering Agent Carter's discomfort when she'd been seducing Brij Nath in Mumbai. His superiors at IMF had said no, and it had taken twisting a few metaphorical arms to change their minds. He knew however that if the mission sunk, he'd drown with her.

Good thing then that he trusted her completely.

'Mrs Byrd' passed him a bottle of sunblock, having spent the last few minutes smearing it into her arms, legs, stomach and chest, knowing that Arouet was watching every second of it. She seated herself between Brandt's knees, a dollop of sunblock in her hand to apply to her face, and Brandt both cursed and blessed the day he'd chosen Emma to do this. He savoured massaging the cream into her shoulders, smiling as she moaned contentedly, and spread it all the way down her back, tucking his hands under her bikini strap to not miss an inch of skin. Once done he scooted up closer to her and pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck, wrapping his arms round her comfortably. "Poor bastard," he commented quietly into her ear. She grinned, leaned back into him and reached back to kiss his temple.

Later, after he went to get more bottles of water from the bar, he came back to find Arouet had made his first move on his 'wife', and jealousy seethed through him before he could even check himself. She was on her front, her bikini strap open to avoid white strap marks, Arouet squatting to talk to her so she didn't have to lean up too much. Hume was playing innocent, unaware of Arouet's obvious intentions, but enamoured by the man's hybrid European accent which he was thickening more than it actually was. Arouet stood warily as Brandt approached, pretending to be naive and unconcerned, his attentions on his wife. Mrs Byrd told her husband all about how Mr Arouet had been recommending taking a boat out to explore the beaches and tiny islands around, and Mr Byrd thanked him, asked if he was staying at the Royal Palm and offered to buy him a drink, joking that if he didn't talk to someone else he and the wife would go stir-crazy, laughing stupidly at his own joke as his wife remained silent, glad that the very handsome Mr Arouet didn't find it funny either. Arouet did take them up at their offer however, and wandered away.

Hume took Brandt's hand and tugged lightly, silently asking him to sit beside her instead of glare after their mark. He remembered himself, smiled down at her and sat, accepting her into his arms as she reached up to kiss his cheek. "Hook," she whispered.

Her bikini was still undone, he realised as he ran his hands down her back, soothing his green tension. "Want me to do this up for you?" He teased, making her blush naturally with embarrassment.

Later that evening, Mrs Byrd entered the Royal Palm Hotel's bar alone, glittery with jewellery, dress flowing behind her, her husband watching the CCTV feed in Agent's Seame's suite. Agent Brandt listened over the comm as Hume told Arouet all about how she supposedly met Mr Byrd, how he had wooed her in a whirlwind romance, and that this was their first vacation together after their honeymoon had to be cancelled by the Wall Street protests. She sounded exactly like a woman hopelessly enamoured by her husband, believing absolutely that he was 'everything she wanted in a man', or some other bullshit.

And then Arouet started picking it all apart. He examined her diamond ring, her diamond earrings, leaning in. He told her oh-so-reluctantly that they were fake, planting the first seeds of doubt in Mrs Byrd's mind, all before Mr Byrd finally made his appearance, apologising for being late, work called. When he kissed his wife on the cheek in greeting, she did not react.

They ended up eating dinner, Mrs Byrd mostly silent as her husband talked with Arouet about business, politics of banking, and most uncomfortably, the worth of diamonds. Arouet was - publicly - a very successful diamond trader, so it wasn't too surprising that he talked about the little gems that made him worth so much. Not so publicly, though he certainly didn't mention this at dinner, he also laundered diamonds for known terrorist organisations, which is why IMF wanted him. In only a couple days, he was due to leave Mauritius to meet with some of his clients in Dubai. Rather than let him go, IMF was sending Agent Seame. Until then, Mrs Byrd was going to have to suffer Arouet's foot feeling her up under the table.

Later, after Arouet had bid them good night, he watched Mr and Mrs Byrd having a blazing row in their suite, forgetting to close the doors behind them. He smirked. Maybe Mrs Byrd was going to be easier than he thought. Then, instead of storming out after his wife furiously chucked her jewellery at him and run out of things to scream at him, Mr Byrd did something that made things a little less easy: he marched over and kissed his wife, almost violently kissed her, and didn't let go as she struggled until she succumbed. He wrapped his arms round her, lifting her off her feet, bunching her dress up as she wrapped her legs round his hips, and stumbled with her to the bed. He kissed his way down her front, and then wretched himself from her to close the doors, undoubtedly returning to his wife on the bed to ravish her some more.

Hmmm. Mrs Byrd wasn't going to be so easy after all.

Inside the suite, Brandt was shaking.

After that surreal dinner, as Brandt wondered just how much bullshit he could blag, he knew that his partner beside him was getting more and more uncomfortable. She kept glancing at him, supposedly guiltily, but he knew her better than that. He guessed Arouet was doing something under the table, sitting across from them, and gently held her hand, also under the table, letting her grip his fingers the more uncomfortable Arouet made her.

As they walked back to their suite, Agent Thurar told them they were being watched by the mark. Instantly Mrs Byrd turned to him and berated him for all of the crappy comments he'd made about her being boring through the day to everyone else, for being so late, for never being off his phone, for being more married to his job than to her. When they got to the suite, they deliberately left the doors open just a bit longer, Thurar telling them the mark was still watching. So she started on her tacky, fake diamonds, chucking them at him. As he pretended to fume at her, Hume shaking with the rage she was faking, Thurar confirmed that Arouet was still watching, and that they had two options: storm out, or make up.

Brandt chose the latter.

He wondered for a horrible moment whether she really meant it as she struggled, and that caving in after was pretend. She directed him in smothered whispers: pick me up, bed, move south... Time had slowed, and what took place in less than a minute might as well have lasted an hour. Brandt didn't know what would have happened if he hadn't pulled himself away from her under the guise of giving them some privacy.

He collapsed in the corner as far away from her as possible, but couldn't take his eyes off her. Her chest was heaving, her lipstick gone, leaving swollen, red lips, her dress punched up around her thighs. She got her breath back, and spoke to their team for him. She told Thurar to keep an eye on their mark, and Seame that all was clear and he could sign off for the night. She then turned off the mic in her dress, and walked over to Brandt and turned his off too. She knelt before him, her knees between his, and gently leaned in to rest her forehead against his. With her finger tips on the sides of his face, Brandt sighed, the tension seeping out, and he reached up with both hands to hold on to her wrists.

The two remained connected like this for a long time, both calming down. Finally Emma pulled back to kiss his forehead. "Are we going to be okay?" She asked gently.

It was a question that asked a lot of things. But... he nodded. Yes. She kissed his forehead again, told him she was going to brush her teeth and get ready for bed, and gently let go of him.

Neither slept well.

The next day, aware that they were being followed by Arouet himself, even before a sleepy-sounding Thurar told him over the comm, the couple hired a jeep and drove round the island for the day. The bags under their eyes just made them look like a couple who'd spent far too much of the night making up, and the wariness between them only added to it. But regardless, they'd decided to go with 'hard-to-get', and so she was wearing one of Brandt's shirts over her bikini, tied up in a knot and a sarong tied round her hips. They gave no sign they had noticed Arouet's clumsy tracking as they bought local souvenirs, going for hand-made bead bracelets to replace the diamonds. When they got back to the hotel they 'bumped' into Arouet also arriving back, who invited them to dinner again. Reluctantly, they accepted, went and got ready, and instead of Brandt being late it was Hume's, swanning out in a cocktail dress that embraced her curves.

As Arouet piled on the compliments to Mrs Byrd, Brandt's green devil threatened to take hold, until Emma smiled at the compliments but took his hand and laced her fingers through his. Arouet was momentarily silenced by the gesture, but judging by the look on his face, he wasn't deterred. He just looked more hungry.

Over dinner, Brandt and Hume stuck to their plan, and as Arouet continued to pile on the charm on Mr Byrd's wife, Brandt finally got to let some of the jealous, possessive, protectiveness run on the outside. But Mrs Byrd was oblivious to her husband, enjoying the charm of their new vacation friend, so when Arouet asked her to dance, she didn't say no, ignoring her husband's disgruntled face.

And over the comm, Brandt heard every sordid, ear-burning thing Arouet whispered into her ear as he held her far too close, let his hands drift far too much, clearly dying to look back at Mr Byrd and smirk. Emma said nothing. But when they turned, she stared at Brandt desperately for help over Arouet's shoulder, her face tight with discomfort. Then she leaned back, her face changing in an instant to coyness for Arouet. "You shouldn't say such things, Massimo, what would my husband think?"

As the song ended, Brandt got out of his chair and headed over to them, not knowing who had had enough more, him or her. "May I claim my wife back?" He asked, all charm, laced with threat. Arouet, all charm too, stepped aside, watching over his shoulder at Mrs Byrd, vindicated to find her eyes were still on him, her face closed but eyes flaming.

It took all of Emma's will not to collapse into her partner's arms with relief as Brandt held her hand and wrapped his other round her waist, holding her almost rigidly, jealously, supposedly distrustfully. It was disconcerting, being unable to be closer, something that felt so natural after only a couple of days. But he was being watched, and he knew that they were running out of time. Sighing, Brandt lifted his hand to her cheek, making her meet his eyes. She lifted her own hand to cover his, and stepped away. "I'm tired, let's go back to the hotel."

Arouet looked disappointed that the show, his twisted little game was over so early, but joined them in the cab back to the hotel, sandwiching Mrs Byrd in the middle at the back of the car, tracing his fingers over the side of her exposed thigh, out of Mr Byrd's sight. Hume made every pretence of trying to not melt, swallowing down her actual feelings of revulsion. When they finally departed in the lobby, Hume held herself together long enough to get to their suite, for Brandt to shut the doors behind them before ripping off her jewellery, practically ripping her tight dress off as she told Brandt, her voice shaking, that she needed a shower, and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

When she came out, her skin pinking from being scrubbed a little vigorously with luffa, Brandt finally hugged her as tight as he had wanted to earlier, and she clung to him just as tight. "Please don't ever ask me to do something like this again," she whispered in his ear. He nodded in the crook of her neck. He had no intention of doing all of this again. Finally she pulled away, headed to her pillow where her pyjamas were. "Tomorrow," she reminded herself. "Tomorrow I get to kick his ass."

During the night, they would be glad that they kept up the wife-husband ruse at night: Arouet snuck into their room. He spent a long time staring over Mrs Byrd's sleeping form, ignoring Mr Byrd who slept beside her, turned towards her back. He gently touched Mrs Byrd's wedding ring, scoffed quietly to himself. Disturbed by the sound, Mrs Byrd turned over in her sleep, facing away from him, back towards her husband, who slept on too. With a last brush over her hair, Arouet left.

Emma opened her eyes as she heard the doors close again, met Brandt's worried stare. He shook his head, lifted his head slightly to check over her shoulder, and then nodded. Emma let out the breath she'd found herself holding on to. "God damn pervert," she whispered.

He smiled weakly. Finally he let go of his grip on the gun under his pillow, and enveloped Emma into his arms, her head resting on his chest.

They fell asleep like that, woke like that. Brandt wrote a note from 'your loving husband', telling Mrs Byrd that he'd gone back to the city, last minute meeting, and that he'd send their Manhattan driver to meet her at JFK. Arouet heard firstly from the concierge that Mr Byrd had checked himself out but that his wife would be staying, and then heard from Mrs Byrd herself at the poolside, sunglasses hiding red eyes, her husband's note scrunched up in a ball at her side. Arouet invited her for dinner in his suite that night, and with a coy, calculating look, Mrs Byrd accepted, already imagining her revenge on her husband for abandoning her on their vacation. Line, Hume thought to herself.

Whilst Arouet made arrangements with the concierge for dinner for two, other events occurred: a waiter spilt a Bloody Mary all over one of the hotel's other guests, and two almost got into a fight. The waiter was fired on the spot under pressure from the guest, and the guest checked out, threatening to tell all of his aristocratic friends to never visit the hotel. The guest - Agent Seame - actually vanished into the hotel's air ducts, and crawled through the building until he was above the ceiling of the Royal Suite, just in time for Mrs Byrd's entrance, dressed in virgin white. Within ten minutes, the bodyguard lost consciousness: he should never have let Mrs Byrd touch his hand, complimenting how good a job he did. Agent Thurar quickly took over his face, and was back at the door before anyone noticed, Brandt watching the actual CCTV feed, the looped one now ready to switch off back to live feed. He then gave Hume her signal, and, watching through Seame's goggles, grimaced as she approached her target, having had enough of games, pushed him on to the bed, and Brandt smiled as she pounced like the ninja she was. She had Arouet in a twist before he knew what was happening, face-down into the bed covers, the unmistakable feel of a silencer at his neck. A card was placed in front of his face, and he was coldly instructed to read it aloud. In a daze, his arm tightening uncomfortably behind his as she put more pressure on it, he skimmed the card before starting. What the...?

"The pleasure of Buzby's company is what I most enjoy... He put a tack on Miss Yancy's chair when she called him a horrible boy... At the end of the month, he was swinging two kittens across the width of the room... I count on his schemes to reveal a way to escape my gloom."

And then Arouet would not remember a thing until he awoke on US soil, not that he would know that he was US soil for certain, because he wouldn't see the outside of the cell he occupied for a long, long time.

The dart in Hume's gun worked instantly the moment Brandt told her he had what he needed, and Seame dropped down lightly from the ceiling, face-mask already in place, frightening Hume so much he had to give her their safety password to confirm he wasn't actually Arouet, speaking in his own voice before Arouet's loaded up. She lowered the gun she'd instinctively raised, went back to the limp body of Arouet and turned him over. His face was frozen in shock still. She stared down at him for a moment, and before Seame could stop her, she backhanded the unconscious man on the bed. "Sinker," she spat at him.

Down at the beach, only a few metres away, a boat pulled up on the shore, and a team of blacked out men jumped out and snuck up the beach to the Royal Suite's ground level. Two bodies were smuggled out, along with a bag of disposed cameras and microphones, as the lights round the patio shorted out for a few seconds, and Mrs Byrd and Arouet came out themselves to tell the night-shift concierge that all was fine. Then Mrs Byrd bid Arouet good night, minus her wedding ring. She took a stroll down to the beach, dipped her feet into the water, and smiled as she felt welcome eyes watching her from the boat, already speeding off.

The next day, Mrs Byrd checked out of the Royal Palm Hotel, telling the concierge that she was going back to her husband. If anyone were to actually conduct a search of Mrs Byrd's wedding ring, it would never be found. Neither Arouet nor his doppelgänger ever attained possession of it.

As for Mr Byrd, watching the smuggle from the boat, he kept his ring.

Twelve Years Later...

Fiji is a country proud to be on the edge of the International Date Line, the one of the first countries to see the sun rise and wake to the new day. Nadi, a town on the West side of the main island Viti Levu, sees the dawn a fraction later than the capital of Suva, but that means the sun rises out of the island and sets in the sea.

Emily Jones was one of the first to wake, emerging from her house on the beach just as the sun started to sear through the palm trees to go for a run on the sand. She went as far as a backpackers' hostel a couple of miles away, grinned bemusedly at the young explorers still awake, chatting mellowly, passing round a spliff, and a few lovers emerging from the bushes to be cheered and laughed at by their friends. Emily smiled, remembering that nearly fifteen years ago it had been she who did the same, minus emerging from the bushes. Back then in her mid-twenties, dawn was a nightcap. Now, approaching forty, it was a morning coffee.

She turned and ran back.

Emily Jones owned and ran a scuba-diving experience company that operated out of Denarau Port outside of Nadi. Nearly fifteen years ago, on a gap year after finally completing her studies in the US, Emily met a group of Fijians looking to start their own company. After hearing about their passions for the water, the coral reefs, and scuba-diving, she paid for them all to take the necessary courses to get the right credentials; a gift for making her feel so welcome and so at peace, finally putting her inheritance to good use. Three years later, Jones returned, and, meeting them again, looking for investment, she gave them the capital they needed to start up. She found all the right contacts, created all the right business links, and they all reaped the profits, shared out fairly amongst all the small team.

Her business partners - friends - who knew her best in Fiji, had watched her grow older, no longer the young mid-twenties girl looking to grow up. They knew that she had been running from some trauma, but she had never, ever spoken of it. They did not speak of it. Whatever it had been that brought her to them the first time did not make her return. At twenty five, she had been shadowed, slowly lightening under the bask of the sun and calming influence of the local cava. At twenty-seven, the shadows were no longer within her, but clearly somewhere behind her, trailing still but failing to catch up. At twenty seven she became Fijian at heart, and had not called any other place in the world home. Every now and then she would disappear at the last minute, apologising but needed back in the States, family emergency.

When she was home, she got her hands dirty. She lead tours with them, left no task undone, and drank the earthy local drink cava with them in the evening. She was an aunt to their children, a friend to their wives.

For her thirtieth birthday, finally Emily's business partners saw the tiniest glimpse into her secretive life. A friend - a man - visited her to congratulate her 'for living this long', as he put it. He was an American like Emily, a few inches taller than her, but very muscular. She explained that her friend, Will, was in the US Marines, that normally his shore leave was so tightly packed with other matters he probably would not visit again for a very long time.

In the near ten years since, he hadn't visited once. Yet when thinking of Emily and her life, this man was always remembered.

She was asked once whether they were in love, and she had answered with regretful silence, and she revealed a sliver of her soul. "Will doesn't belong in this world. He belongs in the battlefield. Neither of us want to be the one waiting at home, hoping the other comes home safe and sound, or comes home at all."

When asked whether maybe it would be worth being the one waiting at home anyway, she smiled again. "He has his duty. I have mine." And then she closed up again.

He stayed with her for a few months, helped her build her house on the beach. They went running together, swam together. She took him out on the boats and showed him the reefs, went scuba-diving with him. They were invited to dinner together, turned up hand in hand. They cooked for friends, bickering like a married couple. They watched him - this Will - and saw how he was never far from Emily, was always taking care of her, letting her take care of him.

But they weren't together, she told them, content.

And then he left, as quickly as she always did. She was very quiet after that. It wasn't the same shadows as before, more like she had been emptied of spirit. But they noticed more and more that she came back happier, sadder and older after her trips away.

Now, as she approached her home, stretching, Agent Emma Hume stared at the home she'd built. Small and modest, for a house built by an American ex-pat in Fiji given some of the properties closer to Denarau, it was built on stilts over the beach so the tide would come in under the house. Consisting of a spacious main room with kitchen attached, there was a flight of stairs leading to the bedroom and open bathroom above, and both had balconies, the bedroom's built on top of the main room below. There was another flight of stairs connecting the two balconies, and all the furniture in the house was built locally, including the bench on the lower balcony that Agent Brandt had built for her from spare parts left behind by the builders. She loved that bench, it was her favourite spot in the house; every part of it was a different colour from the different sources it came from, and so she'd piled it with random cushions. Sitting in front of it was a cava bowl that they had looked for together, avoiding the tourist traps in Nadi town.

The dirt road from the house to the main road was a mile long, ending with the gangway to the front door. Her car, an RAV4, sat patiently waiting for the ride into town to work. As she got closer, the security perimeter Benji installed for her picked up her signature and sent her iPhone a message welcoming her home, telling her no one had approached the house whilst she was away. She knew better. There were tracks leading up to the house where a car had stopped, unloaded, and driven off. No one drove to the house, and even if they had, her security would have told her so.

She walked up the gangway to the door, leisurely, seemingly unsuspecting. She bent down to untie her shoes, and fished the glock out from under the boards. She entered the house quietly, the glock pointing the way, trying to note anything moved, anything gone. There was no difference anywhere. Adrenaline pumped hard. The only people who knew she was here were the people she trusted. And none of the people that she trusted had business coming here and tampering with her security system.

She didn't leave the balcony door open...

"It's just me."

She froze. It took her a full minute to recover herself, and she kept the glock up as she approached and finally pointed it at the intruder in her house.

Agent William Brandt stared at her from the bench he'd made for her ten years ago, not reacting at all. But her hands shook slightly, the only time they had in nearly two decade of wielding firearms. Not once in all these years had she ever needed to point a weapon at him. "What did you tell me to tell Patty?" She asked.

He smiled knowingly. Face and voice masks were far too normal for them. "Use more water, not more sugar."

She gasped for breath, the tension releasing from her body, and she let the glock drop to the floor. She studied him carefully, as though still not believing her eyes. "What happened to you?"

Agent Brandt stared at his leg, at the crutch leaning against the balcony edge. "I got shot," he told her. "Went straight through the bone, been stuck in the hospital for a while." She frowned. She hadn't known. "It'll never be the same, so..." He stared back up at her. "I'm retiring."

Agent Brandt paced. It was noon, and the Mauritian sun was blasting down on him relentlessly, straight from above, giving him no shade to lie under. In the heat he could feel the sweat on his back, seeping through his shirt. But at least it was his own shirt now, not 'Mr Byrd's'. He felt a bit more like himself now, and was eagerly awaiting returning home, despite the fact that Richmond, Virginia was dusted with snow right now. Inside the jet behind him was a thick winter coat sitting on his seat; he had absolutely no use for it right now. Mr Byrd's wedding ring was now safely in Brandt's pocket; he hadn't the heart to get rid of it, though he had no idea what he was going to do with it once he returned home. It wasn't as though he could wear it again; it lacked its mate.

Agent Brandt grinned as Agent Hume approached across the tarmac.

He was at Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam airport, waiting for the plane home. The plane was decorated with US Navy insignia, and the story being spread was that it was at the airport for an emergency re-fuelling. Agents Seame and Thurar were now in Dubai, itching under their masks. A couple of days from now another team would 'arrest' Arouet and his bodyguard a day after the meeting, along with everyone else who attended, and extradite them back to the US under the guise of the US Armed Forces. But for now, both Brandt and Hume were done. At least, Hume would be the moment she shed Mrs Byrd's identity.

Speaking of...

He grinned as he watched Agent Hume approach across the tarmac, from the opposite direction of the airport terminal. She was done with the silly rocks in her ears, on her fingers, around her neck, and was back in her black combats tucked into her combat boots, and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to tan a little longer. Her hair was in her signature side pony-tail, and there wasn't a lick of make-up on her face, only the light gleam of sun block on her nose. Her gun was tucked in the back of her combats, partially concealed by the heavy backpack she carried, but exactly where he kept his. No more silly, spoilt, petty Mrs Byrd. She didn't even walk the same, now that she wasn't permanently swaying her hips on stiletto heals. The only mark she left behind was the white band of skin on Hume's ring finger.

She high-fived him as she neared, and kept heading for the plane. "Let's get out of here, Wizard."

And just like that, they were comrades again. Brandt signalled to the pilot to get ready for take-off, sealed the doors, clipped himself into his seat next to her, and waited. Neither of them were take-off talkers.

As the plane levelled out, a mile up in the sky over the Indian ocean, slowly turning to fly over Africa and the Atlantic to get back to the US East coast, both Brandt and Hume took a sigh of relief, glad that their mission was over. Hume unbuckled herself and stood up, stretching, pacing to stave off restlessness. He watched her comfortably, content in knowing that she did not and would not mind. She slowly paced back to him, stretching her arms over her head. He was suddenly reminded of her coming out of the sea on the beach in her bikini, and smiled at the thought. Even fully clothed, wearing gear she'd worn since her military training days in Special Ops, she was still so beautiful he could think of nothing but her.

She caught his eyes, smiled back. Then she came closer and frowned. "You look tired, Will." She reached out, ran a thumb lightly over the shadows under his eyes, and he rested his cheek into her palm. "Get some rest."

He nodded slightly, knowing not to disagree with her. Then he lifted his head up and studied her own fatigued eyes. "Did you sleep last night?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Not much." The bed felt empty, she left unsaid. During this mission, she'd gotten used to sleeping by his side, even though it had only been a few nights. She slept better when he was there. She'd never known that about herself, that spooning all through the night was something that felt comfortable to her. In the past, a very long time ago at college with fleeting ex-boyfriends, sharing her bed to sleep had felt smothering, like sleeping with a radiator that made too much noise, regardless of whether it snored or not. Not having him around would be something to get used to again when they returned to IMF.

There wasn't a lot of space, but somehow they managed to stretch out across the bench, his chest as her pillow, her body almost completely on top of his. He tucked her in close, his arms holding her, her hands tucking under his shoulders. But neither slept per se. One would doze, whilst the other soothed seemingly just by breathing and beating their hearts. Eventually, as both lost track of what the actual time was in whichever time zone they now occupied, they found themselves talking.

Brandt promised her he'd never ask her to play the honey trap again. He told her honestly that it wasn't just because he knew that it had made her skin crawl, but because he couldn't stand to watch. She told him honestly that she never wanted him to pretend to be such a shitty husband to her ever again.

He told her she could crash at his apartment after they were debriefed, a place to lay low before heading on to wherever she needed to go. She didn't say anything to that.

He asked her why it was so difficult to get her on the mission. Keeping nothing back, she told him it was all to do with her report on Bangkok, when she finally returned to give it.

"I told Brassel that Agent Hunt had become dangerously reckless, more than is safe in even an IMF agent. I told him that I never wanted my life to be in Hunt's hands again, that he had sent me there to die." She shrugged. "I knew that Bangkok was a suicide mission, an actual impossible mission. It didn't have to be like that though, there were easier methods. But I think - and I told Brassel this - that Ethan hasn't been the same since he had to fake his wife's death." She met Brandt's troubled expression with all-seriousness. "I might be a relatively new agent, but no agent I know would kill six men in cold blood to get himself in prison to meet a potential asset." She shrugged again. "Hunt can do what he wants with his own life. But not mine. I want to live today, fight tomorrow, as they say." She then chuckled. "Brassel wasn't so happy with my assessment. I'm a soloist now."

Brandt stared down at her in astonishment. "A what?"

She looked up at him, resting her chin on his chest. "As I did so well in Bangkok, I'll just be doing solo missions from now, as a specialist. That's why it was difficult to get hold of me, and why I delivered the 'Rabbit's Foot' alone as well." She smiled suddenly, trying not to laugh. "There are some perks: I get paid better, usually longer gaps between missions. I've got to create a cover for my downtime, and I know exactly what I'm going to do."

She told him about what she did after she finally got discharged from the hospital two years ago. She told him that shortly after giving her report she made a request to go for an extended vacation before returning to the field in her new role. Her psychiatrist backed her up, and off she went, trying to find corners of the earth where she didn't feel chased, knowing that IMF was following and watching the whole time.

First stop had been Tokyo University to meet Professor Toyoda. Walking down the corridors dressed in assassin black, her Caucasian blood distinguishing her from the fully-blooded Japanese roaming the halls; people would ask about her for months to come. She'd marched into Toyoda's office, ordered the student in there to get out, and locked the door. She'd felt nothing as Toyoda failed to recognise who she was; he had after all never seen her in his life, not even as a new-born. So she told him exactly who she was, that she was Enma-O Meido, the daughter of Louisa Mill that he had not cared about to even give a kind name to. She told him that she was glad that he had had no part in her life until this meeting, that she was glad that her parents had brought her up happily and securely. And then she told him that she did not regret the decisions that she had made by herself to become the woman she was. She was glad she'd been brought up by good people who knew that blood meant nothing at all, and duty meant everything.

She told him that if he had a tiny speck of paternal instinct in him, he should be proud of her. And then she punched him, knocking him out in an instant, and said one last thing to him: they would never meet again. And she got the first plane out of Tokyo, not caring where it went.

She volunteered to keep herself busy, in orphanages in India, schools in Africa, farms in South America. Eventually she rocked up in Fiji, remembering that the backpackers who let her hitchhike from Milford Sound to Queenstown on her first mission had recommended the country. Their recommendation proved a good one. She pretended she was straight out of back-to-back degrees in the States, flush with inheritance from a relative who told her to have a good time with it. She was looking for an escape, and Fiji gave it to her. Her head stopped storming.

Then IMF called her back, and as a goodbye gesture, she told her local friends that she'd provide the first investment in their ambitions, promising that if she returned, she'd see their business take root and grow. She said if, because she could never be sure she'd live long enough to come back to her newfound Eden. But she had every intention of keeping that promise.

"You should come out sometime, see what I'm talking about," she teased Brandt. "I'll take you out scuba-diving, free of charge."

That night she took up his offer to stay at his apartment, sleeping safely beside him in his bed that had never had anyone else in it. He didn't think he'd ever take up her offer. As it was, inviting her into his home was hardly wise. As she slept in his arms, her back pressed against him, he knew that letting each other into their lives that much could and would compromise each other, could kill each other. He was stretching it, they both were. He still wanted to fight tomorrow. He had a duty to IMF, thus to the world. That was a heck of a lot bigger than...

He loved her. With his nose buried in her hair and her heart beating close to his, it was both the best feeling and the worst. And he knew deep down that to him, and to her, IMF came first. The mission came first. Saving the world came first.

Yet two years later he took her up on her offer anyway. He'd just finished a mission that he thought would kill him and had both succeeded and survived. In a mad rush of thanking his lucky stars that he was alive, he pestered Benji until he gave him Emily Jones' address in Fiji, and boarded a plane to Nadi. He found her at the harbour, fresh off the boat after a tour, smelling of the sea and sand, her dark hair naturally sun-streaked and her skin deeply bronzed. His home was in her embrace as she screamed with joy and hugged him, not the Spartan apartment where he now slept stiffly.

She showed him what the moon and star light looked like on the Pacific, and he sat her down on the sand in front of the construction site that was her house and told her how much he envied Ethan Hunt for his brief idyllic blink of a life he had with Julia, when they were happy. He'd seen them in Croatia, remembered envying what he thought was naivety at the time. He told her how much he envied her, and the life that she was living on the other side of the Date Line, a life just as real as the life she led for IMF, just under another name.

He told her how much he wished he could lead that life with her.

A single tear ran down her face, and she kissed the edge of his mouth, holding his head so he couldn't move to kiss her properly. "What happens the next time someone tries to bring nuclear armageddon on us?" She asked him softly. "I want to fight tomorrow. That means I'm not really alive today."

Silently, he agreed with her. The bad guys were still out there, out to hurt people directly or indirectly. He knew they were there, and knew that he was one of the few who could stop them. For as long as he was one of those few, he'd fight tomorrow.

He still stayed with her, spooning every night because it was so normal for them, until IMF called him back. On that beach under the light of bodies thousands and millions of miles away, they silently stayed friends, and nothing more. But nothing less either.

Sleeping so close every night was never an issue to them somehow. It wasn't that it never crossed their minds to get closer, more that they never felt safer anywhere else than in each other's arms. Given what their lives consisted of everywhere else in the world, that feeling of safety was not worth compromising. They were both human though; sometimes it was just painful, knowing the line was close, deadly so. But then she'd just hug him tighter to her, and hold on so they couldn't move closer to the line, or retreat from it either.

On his last day, waking up at her side, he promised her one thing: if he lived long enough to retire, he was coming back here. The day he couldn't fight tomorrow, but was still alive, he'd be hers, and he'd love her until the day he died, whether she accepted him or not. In the melancholy that followed his departure from the home he'd helped her build, she promised him the same.

That had been ten years ago. She was now approaching her fortieth birthday, and he'd seen fifty go by. His hair had silvered and was transitioning to white, and age had crept into the lines around his eyes. He was still just as handsome as when he turned up at her aunt's house nearly two decades ago. They hadn't worked together since Mauritius, but she saw him every time she was back in the States: she stayed at his apartment every time, both sleeping better for it.

He was her best friend, the only person she trusted with everything she possessed, including herself. Since dragging him out of Tannin's rigged-to-blow house in New Zealand, since shooting Gong to stop her shooting him, Will had saved her life time and again; she might have been doing solo missions, but she never did them alone, he backed her up every time, not caring about IMF's rules. Brassel had chewed them both out for their closeness, but she always suspected that in reality, Brassel didn't care half as much as the rules stipulated that he should. He'd care when their affection stopped them from doing their jobs properly, when they failed their missions or failed to come home.

She knew everything about Will, including what it had been like growing up under his original name, before IMF picked him out of the Middle East, the things that cannot be pinched from a file.

She loved him too. For nearly two decades, it had kept her alive.

She sat next to him on the bench, facing him, still amazed he was back in her house. Up close, she could see Mr Byrd's wedding ring round Will's neck, hanging from a chain. She reached out and ran the tips of her fingers round the band. "I kept mine in my emergency escape pack, in case I ever have to leave here in a hurry. It's buried at the airport, so I wouldn't lose it."

He broke into a grin, reached towards her as she took hold of the chain, and they kissed the way they had always wanted to kiss each other: like they knew they'd be able to do it for the rest of their lives, but damned if they didn't make the most of it now.

Former-Head of Technical Research and Development Benji Dunn contentedly drank his beer, lounging by the pool, watching the scene before him. It was his retirement party, and there were faces here that he had never expected to see. Once upon a time, he had never expected to reach retirement age anyway, so everything on this day was a plus. His nervous babbling had long ago become a habit of the past. He only babbled now to amuse his kids. Or at least, he knew that it amused them, they pretended it embarrassed them.

His wife was inside the house in the kitchen, preparing a salad, chatting to some of the other IMF wives. Although he could not see her, Benji knew that she looked just as beautiful as she did the day he met her. That had been a very long time ago, or so it felt. His daughter, the eldest in her high school-teen years, had climbed out of her bedroom window hours ago to escape with her boyfriend to the movies, not wanting to be holed up with a bunch of oldies. His son, only just arrived into teendom, had stayed for the barbecue, but was planning on meeting his friends from school in a couple of hours. He'd told his mom that it was for homework. Neither parent was that naive, so he was doing his homework now.

Helping him was Julia Hunt, her silvery white hair and ageing lines detracting nothing from her beauty. She never had given up her married name, even after Ethan Hunt finally and inevitably undertook his last mission and never came home. Gazing at her from across the pool, Benji always regretted her fate, and blessed his lucky stars that he'd never had to drag his own wife through the same. Hopefully when he became a star in IMF's memorial wall, it was when old age took him, that there were no more bullets with his name on them.

"Hey, Benji."

Benji looked up at his companion, and smiled as Emma sat down at the edge of the pool, trailing her feet in the water. She was now in her mid-fifties, still in terrific shape. Many years ago she had retired from the field and had become an instructor, teaching new recruits to 'mean it' like her instructors had taught her. She hadn't been shot at or chased or threatened in the name of duty for years, and the peace of that knowledge shone in her skin. She looked happy, the kind of happiness that was in one's bones and soaked through to the skin.

It always amused and touched Benji to think of Emma. To think of her was to remember her sitting on her aunt and uncle's porch in her pyjamas at the age of twenty-two, nervously awaiting trouble that she'd gone and sought. To think of her was to remember she was once a better hacker than he was, and that she'd decided to not use that skill in her work. To remember that on her first mission she'd flung herself out of an airplane more readily than her team leader, that after that mission she'd earned the nickname Ninja for being so deathly silent. To remember she'd once saved his life by yanking him off his ass to escape a bell tower exploding around him.

He'd never paid her back for that one. To think of her was to remember that he was alive, that he had everything around him because she'd reacted so fast. He was glad that she was still here too, that she was so happy. She deserved it, he always thought.

He followed her gaze and smiled. On the other side of the pool was the source of Emma's happiness. Feeling Emma and Benji's eyes on him, Will Brandt looked up from the burgers he was taking care of on the barbecue and grinned back at them. He leaned down a bit to speak to the little girl at his side, helpfully spreading ketchup on burger buns, pointed across the pool, and waved as his daughter waved too. He spoke again to his daughter - Eori, after the Fijian island her parents had snuck on to once and supposedly conceived her on - and gave her a gentle push as she skipped over to her mom. Emma grinned as her giggling girl crashed into her in a big hug, and gave her a hand as the girl sat beside her, babbling about the progress of their food.

In the IMF's personnel files, Eori was listed, though not by name, as the reason why Emma gave up the field. Benji always liked this story. After Will was shot in the leg on his last mission, he'd hobbled himself out of hospital the minute the doctor told him that whilst he'd walk just fine he'd never be able to sprint again, and boarded the first plane to Nadi. A couple of months later, Benji received a postcard sent directly to his office at IMF. The postcard had nothing written on it, but the microdot under the stamp contained a single photograph: Will and Emma, smiling happily, both with wedding rings on their fingers. It had made Benji whoop with joy for them, shaking his head with disbelief. Bloody finally, he'd told them when he next saw them.

Less than a year after he received that postcard, Benji helped Will and Emma pick out their new house in the suburbs of Richmond, not far from his own home, Emma already heavily pregnant. Emma had sold her share of her scuba-diving company to her partners in Fiji, but was umming and erring over selling her house. Benji didn't blame her for deciding to keep it in the end: he remembered visiting it to oversee the security installation many years ago, remembered how content she was there after a few years of being shadowed over by the past. It had been her sanctuary from the madness of IMF, much like Benji's sanctuary was his own family and home. But both Will and Emma decided that they couldn't stay in Fiji, in that dream house so far away from the other world they inhabited. They both felt their sense of duty, even now, and so returned to pursue other roles that meant they could still be married, still be parents, still be agents without jeopardising everything they held dear. The Fiji house was now their vacation home.

Their only regret today, Benji knew, was that it had taken so long. Will was in his early fifties when Eori was born, Emma just turned forty, both older than Benji had been when his kids had even been an idea.

And now, Eori attended the school that both Benji's daughter and son had attended. Brandt was considering retiring soon too, after many years working contentedly with 'Chief Analyst' on his office door again. Emma, having just celebrated her fiftieth birthday, was not so far off, but knew that soon age would have to make her reconsider the physical life of being an instructor. When she first started she was faster, stronger and more agile than some of her recruits after they'd passed their tests. Now, they were all slowly surpassing her, as she knew they were meant to.

Not once in Eori's lifetime had either Will or Emma ever considered returning to the field. They'd both been asked, and both declined. Neither felt the need to fight in the name of duty any more. Besides, it would have been a logistical headache: who would have done the school runs?

Brandt tossed the burgers on to their buns, and made his way over to his family. Since being shot in the leg on his last mission, he'd never walked the same again, and now that old age was creeping in, the limp that had been less noticeable once was becoming more so now. Benji remembered that even after it had healed Brandt had never been able to sprint again, as his doctor predicted, and could only just go for daily runs with Emma. Now, it was just Emma running.

As Will sat on the other side of his daughter, passing Emma's plate across, complete familiarity to the three sitting at the edge of the pool, Benji wanted to ask his former team leader a question he'd asked many times in the years gone: when did you guys actually get together? Will was too rational to rush into getting married within two months after arriving in Fiji again, let alone father a child almost immediately after that. Emma was too patient and too calm to rush either. Benji could not fathom that the two had spent nearly two decades not sleeping together. As in, sleeping together, as Emma always liked to make fun of him every time he'd asked her, reminding him that actually sleeping together had been so normal to the two of them that Brandt had never bothered setting up a guest bedroom in his apartment in his single days.

Will always shrugged contentedly when Benji asked him, the same shrug Emma would give. "We're together now," he always said. "I just wanted to keep her safe, Benji."

Emma always put it best: "We didn't want to be Romeo and Juliet." Then she'd grin to herself, the grin a woman had when she was happy, and loved-up. Obviously the whole just-sleeping thing had come to its end. Finally.

Benji's son came out of the house and gleefully told him he was done with his homework. Benji grinned, congratulated his 'champ', and thanked Julia for helping him. Julia barely heard him. She was staring over at the three sitting at the edge of the pool, watching enviously as Eori Menneer giggled at her father, at the ketchup he had dribbled down his chin, and as Emma, laughing too, reached out un-awkwardly to wipe the sauce from the corner of his mouth. Benji finally stopped doubting their story. Will Brandt and Emma Hume - Mr and Mrs Jerry 'Will' and Emily 'Emma' Menneer - who had waited so patiently for the right time, had worked, were working. Ethan and Julia, who hadn't, had not. Maybe there was something to their calm rationale, of all those years of just making each other feel safe over everything else, over burning passion.

After all, they got to live happily ever after.

Always wanted to use that last line, just once, without kicking myself for it, haha.

Many thanks to all those who have read this, and to all those who will read this. Please let me know what you think of it, reviews fight off the writers' block. Otherwise, now that we depart, take care.

Guard of the Heradi.