Chapter Text
"Mission... accomplished," Ethan confides to the comm, tight-voiced. "Insofar as Target blew up the control panel, then his brains. No parachute that I can see, so I'm rigging up something with a tarp. If I don't make it -"
"Where are you?" Benji cuts in. In his back Ethan can make out Brandt's - Will's - voice, remote, a blurred phantom pain. He closes his eyes briefly; opens them again at Benji's voice.
"Will says you’re crossing into the Marchfeld fields. Apparently his plan E features Ethan runs into trouble halfway into Austria, because, well, because Ethan."
Ethan tries again. "Tell Will..."
There's a crackle before Will's voice takes over, his lower tones as precise as if they were detailing some price intel.
"Ethan. On my signal, jump. You'll be all right."
"You don't know -"
"Plan E," Will says quietly. "I’ve had eleven fields covered with stacks of mattresses, a supposed homage to Cristo. Stacks, Ethan. You’re not breaking on my watch."
The plane plummets in ear-splitting depths of noise, but Ethan's blood drums louder - relaying every thump and contraction of his heart.
"Will, I..."
But it's Benji again. "Right, now would be, you know, a top-notch time to skydive. Since Will has your back. Or backside, depending on how you land." And the plane is close enough that Ethan can indeed spot a stunning patchwork of whites and pale blues on the ground.
"Why would he do this," Ethan reflects aloud. Plan A, Ethan's one and only because he hardly ever finds the time to wing variations, had him disarm Target, punch Target, then gag and tie him, then land the plane and drive over to the Gänserndorf safe house where Will & Team are waiting. It was a sound, a sober (for Ethan) plan. Now the upholstered field leaps into focus, pat when Benji's sigh coalesces in his ear.
"You utter twit," Benji is saying. "Seriously, Ethan? Jump! I'm pretty sure it will hit you before you hit the goosedown."
Hope, Ethan tells himself. He takes the leap, the tarp unfolding above his head while his heart expands into its own galvanic impulse. Hope trumps smarts in matters of the heart, however brittle and uncertain. But the tarp holds, and the fall becomes a return, and a pure streak of joy, all the way down the bright sky.
[Edit: It’s Mission:Impossible, so we’ll assume that the plane crashed into a nearby body of water instead of setting fire to the mattresses and rural Austria.]