Chapter Text
Sunlight dripped through a small, barred window, making a dusty rectangle on the gray‑green walls of the room. A tall doctor stood beside her bed and spoke in a measured tone, “Good morning, you’re looking sharp as ever.” When she opened her eyes, the brightness of the room is startling; as her vision cleared, she noticed two younger doctors hovering nearby, likely interns, watching from the edges of the room. Her eyelids fluttered open again, then slowly closed as she fought to focus.
The doctor by her side cleared his throat. “You’re quite the fighter, Miss Faust. You were clinically dead for nearly three minutes. You must have had an angel by your side. Mr. Hunt insisted you be moved here immediately.” He motioned to an intern, who adjusted her IV drip.
Ilsa’s throat felt dry. She tried to swallow. Beside her, Ethan gently took her hand in his. Even in the haze, she felt the familiar steadiness of his presence. “Ethan,” she croaked, voice barely audible.
He leaned in close, eyes warm and intense. “Welcome back.” Their gazes found each other. In that moment, Ethan realized how hollow the past four months had felt; he had thought he’d lost her forever.
The intern doctors hovered awkwardly behind the chief physician, exchanging glances. “All vitals are stable,” the senior doctor continued softly. “Neurologically, there was still significant damage. We've had to place you in a medically-induced coma previously to give your brain time to heal.” He paused. “We...? We only just woke you.”
Ethan squeezed her hand. “You’ll catch up fast,” he whispered. Ilsa’s gaze wandered to the window, where sunlight cast long lines across the sterile floor. She reached up weakly to touch her clothing, recognizing the light hospital gown, that bland uniform of vulnerability.
It reminded her of Venice, of Gabriel, of that moment she never thought she'd wake from. Her memory was fragmented. The stabbing. Darkness. Then… Venice. Gabriel. And then nothing. She inhaled, letting the air fill her chest. “Venice…” she whispered.
Ethan leaned closer, his voice low and taut. “You saved Grace,” he said, his eyes carrying both pain and pride. When her gaze flicked toward him at the mention of Grace, he offered a small, steadying nod. She wanted to ask more, but the effort of speaking felt too heavy. “I beat Gabriel,” he went on, pausing just long enough for the silence to press in. “The Entity… I—” his breath caught. “We’ve beaten it.”
Ilsa's vision swam, but she understood. She had awakened into a world where the mission had ended, where she had died and yet survived. Tears welled, but she blinked them back. “You stayed…” Four months had passed in silence. She had been cut off from the world—and yet Ethan had stayed. Although he didn’t respond to her.
Her grip tightened on his hand. With effort, she raised it, brushing his cheek. “Ethan…” she rasped. The doctors moved closer, concern flickering across their faces. He smiled, though tears slipped down. “Hey. I’m right here.” A soft beep interrupted the moment, her heart monitor. Ilsa closed her eyes again, fatigue weighing heavy, but peace etched into her expression.
—
In the past five weeks, the sterile quiet of the hospital room had been replaced by the soft hum of daily routine and the gentler beeps of fewer medical devices. Each day, Ilsa had pushed herself through grueling rehabilitation sessions with a personal trainer Ethan had brought in. Slow, deliberate steps at first, then more demanding exercises that left her aching but determined. She desperately needed to get out. The pain was constant, a dull reminder of how far she’d come, but so was her resolve.
All this time rehabilitating in the hospital, she was usually alone. She chose to recover quicker without any distractions but it did make her wonder what the team would be up to without her presence. She did hear that the day after Venice, Grace accepted the choice and that it was she that helped with the final piece in the puzzle to neutralise the entity. Paris had joined the team too, according to Benji but it was never revealed to Ilsa how and why. After Ethan, who was more absent than supporting her in her final weeks at the hospital, there was always Benji. Every Tuesday and Friday, he’d come and make her feel less alone.
Not today, it was Ethan who wanted to be with her today. He stood beside her now, a mixture of relief and pride in his eyes. “Are you ready to get out of here?” he asked. Ilsa nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. The hospital staff bustled around, finalising paperwork and checking her vitals one last time before she was going to get disconnected. Today, she was going home. No longer just a patient, but a survivor stepping back into a life she’d fought to reclaim.
On the way back to the IMF’s residence in a village nearby Venice, Ilsa’s thoughts trailed off. At the edge of her mind flicked the moment she realised she had no MI6 left to protect her. Her flat by the Thames, even her betta fish named Donna Sheridan, had gone dark when her status as “active agent” was erased. MI6 was no longer hunting her—but it didn't fund her either. She was no one’s asset, and they withdrew her apartment, her cover, her life. All she kept from her old life was Donna.
She’d never signed the Oath, never been sworn in. She hadn’t traded one flag for another; she’d fallen into missions voluntarily, even unseen. They called her ‘an explorer between loyalties’, but she’d found a purpose at last. She found herself stepping into the shadow of Ethan Hunt. She traveled alongside him, Benji and Luther. Ilsa would later hear them call her ‘a warrior without a country,’ somewhat offensive but honest. She embodied the only kind of belonging she still believed in: being useful. Useful at a cost. Useful for the right outcome.
She remembered the rooftop. The only time Ethan didn’t wear the mask, just looked at her. No courier, no mission. Just two people who had never been allowed that. She let herself imagine they could slip into something together—an apartment, a life, a palace of an aquarium for Donna, if she dared to stay alive. But beneath her heart she remembered Gabriel's promise: one of ‘them’ had to die. Too bad for the angel of God, his words never came to see the light of day.
Ethan and Ilsa had been on the road for 2 hours. She stared out of the window, enjoying the scenery of vineyards. She didn’t really pay attention, the last 2 hours of what she could remember replayed in her mind. Grace, the other woman Ethan cared about, walked carefully along the terrace edge, getting lost in the canals of Venice. Ilsa could remember so vividly how she stopped in her tracks when Gabriel’s final choice echoed: hers or Grace’s. Ilsa didn’t hesitate nor was she at that moment destined to take her final breath. The woman she had heard stories from when Benji had contacted her to come with them to Rome.
She didn’t know Grace but she knew well enough how Ethan would make sure nothing would ever happen to her. And so it was made obvious when Ethan wouldn’t give up a name to decide who lived or who died that night. That thought kept Ilsa thinking, what did Ethan really think? Surely unconsciously he must have made a decision. Like asking a parent their favourite child, there is always an answer.