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Las Vegas certainly isn’t the most glamorous place in the world but apparently IMF level threats occur even in casinos with ugly carpeting and hotels with gaudy wall art. Paris doesn’t find herself all too bothered by it, a mission is a mission after all. Besides, all anybody has to do is point and she’ll shoot. However, since making the choice and joining Ethan Hunt and his team for the long haul (post the almost end of the world that brought her to them), she finds that to be the case less and less. Instead they ask for her input. Make plans with her. It’s hard to get used to.
The first time it happened, she remembers, they were crowded around a screen displaying information and maps and targets for their upcoming mission. At least Ethan, Benji, Grace, and Degas were. Paris held back, ultimately uninterested in the parts irrelevant to her.
That didn’t last long.
“What do you think, Paris?” Ethan asked and suddenly all eyes were on her.
Caught off guard she had made a small, “Hm?” noise in response.
“You’re either entering from this fire escape, here,” Benji had said, zooming in on the screen to show what he was referring to, “Which will give you access to any floor but has the downside of visibility. Or, you can enter through this back basement entrance here which is hidden but will require you to ascend numerous floors containing god knows who or what.” He summarized not all that succinctly.
Paris blinked, shrugged, and said (in her mildly broken English), “I do not care where you put me.”
Grace had considered her, “Don’t you want some input? It’s your life on the line, after all.”
Paris had found it silly. She was used to bodily harm. If she died, she died. In her mind, she was effectively a weapon at their disposal and she intended to act like one. Guns didn’t ask if it would hurt to be shot. They didn’t say when they’d like to be used. They just killed.
“Tell me where to aim,” she said. “That is my job.”
Ethan frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in something of a disappointed look. Grace and Degas exchanged worried glances. But it was Benji who, as full of surprises as he always was, looked like he understood. He looked like he knew everything. Too much. His gaze softened as he looked her dead on and asked, “what do you think is best?”
Then he stepped aside to make room for her around the screen.
Paris approached cautiously, like making a plan was a trap. She looked at the building schematics and tried, really tried to care. Finally, she said, “Basement.”
“You’re sure?” Ethan asked.
She nodded, “Less exposure. And there’s a door here,” she said, pointing, “The uhm.. What are they called? L’escalier?”
“Stairs.” Benji and Ethan said in unison.
“Yes,” she nodded, “Less chance I run into anyone.”
Ethan nodded, cracking a slight smile, “Smart.”
Benji smiled softly at her. As Ethan carried on with an explanation of plans Benji looked to her and said, “Give us more input more often, eh? You’re worth more than just your ability to shoot a gun, you know.”
That had lit something within her, she thinks. This idea of worth. Her worth. She had forgotten what that meant.
Maybe that’s why she had agreed so easily to taking on a different role on this particular mission than her usual run and gun tactic. That being acting as a honeypot.
It wasn’t often a mission called for something like this, in fact Paris could count on one hand the number of times it has, and each time Ethan had been the one to play the part. But the target in question this time around was decidedly a lesbian so that wouldn’t exactly fly here. Grace was the first choice, assumedly because everyone took one look at Paris’ resting scowl and decided she was out but as it turns out Grace is… very awkward when it comes to women.
“I don’t know how to flirt with women!” Grace announced.
“It’ll come naturally to you!” Benji had said, “Here, practice on Paris!”
Paris shot up at that, “Why me?”
Benji sighed dramatically, “Because you are a woman and the target is a woman and it’d be weird for Grace to call me a hot babe.”
“Should I say hot babe?” Grace asked.
“God no,” he winced, “Just give it a shot,” he said, stepping away from Grace and Paris, “And action!” Paris is well aware of the wink he threw her behind Grace’s back.
“Okay..” Grace mumbled, “Uh.. you come here often?”
“No one actually says that!” Degas criticized from the side.
“Quiet from the peanut gallery!” Benji scolded.
Paris rolled her eyes at them and refocused on Grace. She might as well give her something to work with. “What’s your name?”
“Grace.”
“That is…. a very pretty name.
“Yours…. too…?”
“She didn’t even say her name,” Benji complained.
“And why did you phrase it as a question?” Degas adds.
“I don’t see you doing this!”
“Cause I’m not qualified for this particular mission!”
“Okay, okay!” Benji interrupted, “I will say this is very stilted.”
“It’s easier to be romantic in French,” Paris attempted to justify at least her end of the bad improv scene.
Grace huffed, “I doubt this is any easier in French.”
In the next moment, Paris reached for her hand, holding it gingerly she said, “A beautiful name for a beautiful face. It is an honor to meet you, Grace.” Then she brought Grace’s hand to her lips in a chaste kiss.
Grace stared at her, wide eyed and blushing.
“Good lord,” Benji had commented, “Right, well if we get this lady drunk enough Paris in her native tongue may just do the trick.”
“Yeah,” Grace had said somewhat breathlessly, “I agree.”
“What do you say, Paris?” Benji asked.
Paris considered it for a second before agreeing with a small nod and an “Okay.”
Ultimately, this is how Paris ends up wearing the sexiest dress in the costume closet and standing beside a very drunk target whilst blowing good luck kisses on her dice as she gambles and the rest of her teammates make fun of her over comms.
“Thank you, beautiful,” the target says, kissing Paris’ cheek.
In her ear, Degas snorts, “There’s a lipstick kiss on Paris’ cheek.”
“Shut up!” Grace says, “There is not!’
“There is!”
“You lot are children, I swear,” Benji grumbles.
“Was it like this the whole time I left you with them?” Ethan asks off handedly, strained.
Benji sighs dramatically, “You don’t know the half of it.”
Paris is unable to defend herself or comment on the fact that Ethan is climbing an elevator shaft as they speak and still manages to complain about them. She continues flirting with the target, an admittedly gorgeous but borderline alcoholic woman that she's certain she has wrapped around her finger already. All she needs is Grace to get access to her hotel room and Paris can suggest that's where they head next.
Her team chatters in her ear as she tries her hardest to look interested in the woman next to her. She silently begs Ethan to just get the stupid keycard to Grace already but he's been side tracked by this particular woman's henchman (hence sneaking into the elevator shaft to get away… apparently.)
“Remind me again how getting onto the roof of the elevator car was your best option?” Benji asks.
Ethan sighs, annoyed, “It's a whole thing.”
“It always is.”
A man comes over and approaches the target, speaking to her in hushed tones. Paris can spot at least three different places she knows he's hiding weaponry. The woman brushes him off and he obliges. It's a reminder that this woman, as gone as she is, has a lot of power. Power that makes her dangerous.
“Sorry about that, lovely,” The woman says, turning back to Paris and using one of the many nicknames she's tried on her tonight. Paris forces herself to smile, “I hate this and I hate you.” She says in French with her most convincing sexy voice.
Benji snorts in her ear.
“I don't know what you said but it sounded hot when you said it. How do you say hot in french?” The woman asks.
“Fuck off.”
“Fuck off.. your language is so pretty.” She reaches up and plays with a strand of Paris’ hair, leans in and whispers, “And so are you.”
“Eugh,” Grace comments.
“Now you have an opinion on flirting?” Degas asks.
“Yeah, when it's done badly.”
She can already sense the teasing comment from Degas coming but it gets cut off by Benji announcing, “Okay, Grace, Ethan is on your floor, Paris your turn.”
“I was thinking…” Paris starts, playing up her accent, “You have a room here, no?”
The target lights up, “I do…. what did you have in mind?”
“Oh, a couple things..” Paris trails off, looking over the woman’s shoulder at another armed guard that’s eyeing her, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”
“Them?” The woman asks. She waves her hand dismissively, “Don’t worry about them. They do what I want them to do and right now, I think I want them to fuck off.” She’s practically hanging off of Paris now.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” Degas hums.
Paris smiles, “ Lead the way.”
The woman holds her hand, guiding her through the packed casino and into the elevator. The elevator is.. A less than comfortable experience. The woman seems determined to leave a mark on Paris one way or another, kissing her neck, feeling one word away from doing more.
“Hang in there, Paris,” Benji mutters, “Grace, you ready in there?”
“Almost…” Grace says, struggling with something, likely the safe she’s trying to lock pick. The reason Paris is leading their target there is because while Grace is an expert in all things stealing she’s no match for a voice activated lock.
“Well, you better hurry because Paris has a very impatient lady on the way.”
“I’m trying!”
“Deep breaths Grace, if you need more time Paris will buy it.” Ethan comforts.
“I will?” Paris asks aloud.
The woman looks up at her, eyes half lidded, “What was that?”
“Nothing my love, just wondering how I got so lucky.” She tries desperately to get back in character.
Thankfully, the woman is too drunk to notice and just giggles at her French.
“You will,” Ethan says, “If the mission requires it.”
“Grace?” Benji asks as the elevator doors open, “They’re extremely close.”
“I need more time!” Grace relents.
“Paris?” Benji asks.
They’re already about to reach the door, the target reaching for her key card, and Paris does the only thing she can think to do. She kisses the target as passionately as she can, pushing her up against the wall.
“That’s one way to do it,” Benji comments.
“Okay, we’re good!” Grace announces.
Paris pulls away. “Someone’s eager,” the target comments, grinning.
“Something like that,” Paris replies.
The target fumbles with the door but gets it unlocked and drags Paris inside.
“Okay,” Benji announces, “Grace, Paris, you’re both officially out of my line of sight. It’s up to you now. Remember, the voice prompt is Winona. Good luck.”
The comms go deadly silent after that. Paris can’t see wherever Grace is hiding but can feel her eyes watching them as the target pulls her into another kiss. She’s no prude but it does feel a bit too intimate for her liking. She silently hopes for an opening to come her way, a chance to say Winona. She’s starting to stress.
“You’re so beautiful,” The woman whispers, pushing Paris onto the bed. She tilts Paris’ head upwards, “So, so pretty.”
“Say my name,” Paris says.
“Oh,” The woman says, breathless and handsy, “I know that one. Name….” She pauses, looks a little lost and a lot embarrassed.
Paris grabs her hips, “Don’t tell me you forgot it?” The truth is, Paris never even gave her a name. But she doesn’t know that, at least not right now.
The woman smiles sheepishly, “Care to give me a reminder?”
Paris answers simply, “Winona.”
The target chuckles, “Winona,” she repeats, “You don’t look like a Winona,” then, more so to herself than anyone else she absentmindedly says, “Hell or glory.”
Across the room, something beeps and the target’s head whips around, “What the hell?” she asks the darkness of the room.
At that moment, Degas chimes in, “Heads up, you guys have got armed guards heading your way.”
She can practically taste Grace’s anxiety as the target starts to move in the direction of the safe. So, Paris makes a choice. With the woman’s back to her now she grabs the pistol strapped to her leg and gets up off the bed. Approaching carefully, she raises the weapon and hits the target with the handle of the gun.
The woman hits the ground in the next second and Grace emerges from the darkness.
“Thank god,” she says, terrified. She speaks into the earpiece, “Target is unconscious.”
“What? Why?” Ethan asks.
“How else do you expect us to get out of this room?” Grace complains.
Paris extends her hand towards Grace, “Give me your jacket,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because sequins aren’t exactly subtle getaway clothes!” Benji snaps, answering for her. As Grace relents and shrugs off her suit jacket to give to Paris he adds “Friendly reminder that the guards have guns and are right outside now!” Benji stresses.
Just then, someone pounds on the door, “Ma’am are you okay?”
“We have company!” Grace announces, retrieving the USB from the now open safe.
“I think they had an alarm or something,” Benji comments, “Do you have the USB?”
“Got it!” Grace announces.
“Good, now get the hell out of there!” Benji orders.
“We’re coming in!” A voice says from the other side of the door.
Grace grabs Paris’ wrist “C’mon!” she says, “Balcony!”
“You want to jump!?” Paris asks, too frantic to translate. Thus, Grace ignores her and Paris follows her anyway. When they get to the balcony Paris finds that there’s a rope conveniently dangling down to the bottom floor.
Grace is grinning, “I thought ahead.”
Paris bites back her own smile and nods at Grace to go down first. Just then, the hotel room door swings open and there’s guns on them. Paris hits the ground right before someone from within the room shoots out the glass balcony windows and it rains glass on them just as Grace begins to descend. She returns fire but with armed men closing in, someone’s voice over the comms orders her to move. She doesn’t even know who because just as she’s climbing over the railing-
She gets shot.
The force of it makes her lose her grip and go careening off the balcony to a chorus of shouting in her ears. For one terrifying moment she’s free falling. It feels like an eternity, falling and being disappointed that this is how she’ll die. Being disappointed that this is when she’ll die. Just when she’s found something worth holding on to. And then-
“Gotcha!” Grace yells, just barely grabbing hold of her leg before Paris would have slipped out of her reach. All of a sudden Paris is hanging upside down, bleeding from her arm, and looking at Grace’s wide terrified eyes.
“Merci,” she says. Grace nods, still looking terrified.
A gunman looks over the balcony and takes aim.
With her good arm, Paris beats him to the trigger blood drops onto Paris’ face. The motion startles Grace a bit and Paris slips just a little further down.
“Oh, fuck! Sorry!” She cries. Paris’ heart is pounding as she reaches for the rope.
Once it’s finally in her grasp she announces, “Let go!”
“Huh?” Grace asks.
“She said let go!” Benji repeats.
“What!?” Grace asks, “Are you sure!?”
“Yes!” Benji and Paris chorus.
Grace lets go and Paris swings down. Her grip is miserable and her arm hurts but she manages to hang on as the force of her own body drags her back to Earth, giving her gnarly rope burn in the process.
Grace climbs down soon after, instantly at her side as Paris tries to compose herself. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” She says, “We have to move.”
Benji comes in over comms, “I’m sending you all coordinates to the nearest safe house, make it there and make it there alive.” He says it very seriously, only to quickly undermine himself with a pleading, “Please. Do you copy?”
But Paris and Grace are already getting shot at again so there isn’t much time to say anything else other than scream “Copy!” and sprint away.
They stick together as they try to lose the gunmen, something Paris is still getting used to after so many years of working by herself, eventually disappearing into a crowd, aided by Grace’s pickpocketing skills picking them up some half assed sunglasses and hat disguises.
“You were hit,” Grace says accusatorily.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t switch to French now!” Grace complains, “How bad is it?”
Paris moves her hand in a so-so motion and catches the scowl on Grace’s face even behind her sunglasses. “It’s a graze,” she says.
“It better be,” Grace says, “You scared the shit out of me.”
“How do you think I felt dangling upside down five floors up?”
“You know I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“And that’s why it’s fun.”
Grace grumbles. “Yeah, you’re welcome for saving you by the way.”
That does give Paris pause. She stops for a second, the crowd filling in the space around her. She grabs Grace’s hand before she can keep walking.
“What are you-”
“Merci,” she says, “Thank you. I meant it.” Paris isn’t one for many words so she hopes Grace can hear the meaning in her voice. Thank you for saving the life I didn’t know I was allowed to live. Thank you for being a part of it.
Grace’s lip twitches in a bit of a smile, “Any time, any place.” She reaches up and touches Paris’ face in a motion that startles her. “Lipstick,” Grace supplies, “Lets hope the next time you play honeypot you don’t get shot.”
Paris is.. Somewhat speechless at this. Startled by the touch of Grace’s hand on her face, gently rubbing away the smeared lipstick of the target. It startles her even more that unlike the touch of the target earlier, Grace’s touch is… not unwelcome. She must be making a stupid face because she catches the way the look on Grace’s face falters, uncertain and embarrassed.
Then Grace pulls Paris back into motion, the touch of her hand on her face already gone, instead opting to grab her wrist gingerly and tug her along. “Please don’t make a habit of almost dying,” she adds.
“No promises.”
“One day I’m gonna learn French-”
“Ha!”
“One day I’m gonna learn French!” Grace insists, “And you won’t be able to mess with me anymore!”
“Eh,” Paris says, “I’ll find a new way.”
Grace sighs, “I’m sure you will.”
They make it to the safehouse, apparently the last ones to arrive, and find Benji pacing and Ethan sitting like an anxious statue as Degas tries to tell them that it’ll be okay. When they make their appearance known Benji launches into a diatribe fit only for that of a father upset at his kids for coming home past their curfew.
“Thank god,” he starts, “Thank god- are you two okay? What took so long!? And- Paris you’re bleeding, oh my god,” and all of a sudden he’s helping her out of her shawl and shrugging off his jacket to apply pressure to her surface wound that honestly isn’t bleeding all that badly. “I heard the shot and I saw you fall but you kept going, I didn’t think- here, sit down,” he says, guiding her to a nearby chair. She follows him because she doesn’t really have much of a choice with the way he’s acting, “We need to clean this up, maybe stitch it- how much pain are you in? Can you move your arm? If the bullet’s stuck we’ll need to-”
She puts her hand over his, where it’s still pressing cloth to wound, “I’m okay. Only got grazed. It’s not life threatening, I promise.”
Benji pauses. She searches his eyes and watches him come back to himself. She’s not sure if it's the sight of blood or the fact that it's her that’s bothering him so much but she can tell that he’s elsewhere. He moves the jacket to actually look at her wound and sees it for what it is. She’s missing a bit of flesh and yeah she’s bled a decent amount but she’s felt much, much worse. “Still looks like it stings,” he comments.
“Could be worse,” She replies.
He huffs a little, relieved, “Yeah, yeah it could be.” Before moving over to the first aid kit on the table between Hunt and Degas to better figure out his next steps.
“Worry much?” Grace pokes.
Benji tenses for a split second and it looks like Ethan and Paris are the only ones to really catch it. He pivots, “Yeah, well when you’ve been doing this for as long as I have- working with him for as long as I have- you develop anxiety.” He nods to Ethan in the middle of it.
Ethan looks at him fondly but with a bit of worry in his brow, “I didn’t even do anything this time,” he complains lightly.
“Yeah but the youths are picking up on your bad habbits,” he turns back to Paris with a cloth and a bottle of water, “I mean, really? We’re killing people upside down and shot?”
“I’ve never done that,” Ethan points out.
“Yeah but you would.” Benji continues. Paris hisses as he washes out her wound.
Ethan smiles guiltily. He turns to Grace, “Flash drive?”
“Oh- yes!” Grace says, suddenly remembering the reason why Paris was dangling upside down from a casino balcony. She procures it from her pocket and puts it on the table. “Mission accomplished," she says.
Benji looks over his shoulder at Ethan as if to say see?
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ethan says, waving Benji off. He turns back to Grace, “Great job, all of you.”
Benji continues bandaging her up, “Yup. We’ll make you fools a well oiled machine yet.”
“You’re the fool,” Paris snarks through gritted teeth as Benji wraps her arm tight in bandages.
“I’m not the one bleeding.”
“Benji,” Degas says, interrupting their playful spat, “You have tattoos?”
It’s true. Paris hadn’t even realized it but once Benji discarded his jacket he’d been left in a T-Shirt, exposing partial sleeves of tattoos that she had never seen before. Come to think of it, she’s not sure she’s ever seen Benji without long sleeves.
“Hm?” Benji says, putting the finishing touches on Paris’s bandage, “Oh, yeah,” he says looking down at his own arms as he steps back.
“You’ve never seen his tattoos?” Ethan asks curiously.
Degas shakes his head, “Am I the only one?”
“No, you're right, I've never seen them either-” Grace says, clearly analyzing Benji's arms, “Those are really cool Benji, why don't you show them off?”
Benji stands, hands on his hips and huffy, “Cause you don't exactly want to be identifiable when on a mission. Why do you think I was wearing a jacket in this weather?”
“That's fair,” Grace comments.
“Then why get them?” Degas asks.
“Cause… I don't know, I like them? They're for me? Ink therapy? Take your pick.” Then he turns back to Paris, “Are you okay?”
She nods, somewhat distracted by his tattoos. Ink therapy sticks in her brain. She might ask him about it later.
“Good- anyone else injured?” He asks, turning back to the rest of the team.
“We're good, Benji,” Ethan says softly.
Benji deflates, relieved. He and Ethan get back into mission mode for a moment, discussing their next move. To Paris’ understanding, they're done for the night and won't be moving again until tomorrow when it's time to fly back to headquarters, USB in hand. After that, it’s post-mission business as usual. They disperse to claim bedrooms and take showers and get changed and come down from adrenaline highs that leave them aching and exhausted all in time to have a mostly silent, sleepy meal of ordered-in pizza and disperse once more to go to bed. It’s all sort of.. Soft. In a bizarre way that Paris isn’t used to. She’s not used to the quiet contentment of sitting with a group of people she cares so deeply for in comfortable silence save for the occasional pass me a napkin mumbled through mouthfuls of comfort food, wearing soft sweats and smelling of generic shampoo. It’s so, so very unnatural to her. And if anything, she tends to feel undeserving of it. But they don’t make her feel unwelcome. Degas pats her good shoulder when he finally shuffles off to bed and Grace gives her a kind “goodnight, Paris” as she takes her leave as well and eventually, when Benji and Ethan start talking to each other in these soft, almost sad hushed tones and Paris realizes she should leave them they both offer her kind smiles and a reminder that she “did good today.”
Her heart is warm but a feeling of unease twists in her gut. And, this is unrelated, but her shoulder still fucking hurts.
She crawls under the covers of her safe house bed but sleep never does find her. So she resorts to her flask of vodka and staring out the window at a neon city that doesn’t seem to ever sleep. The vodka helps the pain, the staring is just a habit picked up after years of sleepless nights, before Ethan Hunt and all the change he brought into her life.
This means she’s awake when a light in the hallway flicks back on, hours or minutes after it seemingly turned off for the night. It puts her on edge initially so she does the natural thing and investigates.
In the kitchen, she finds Benji, sitting at the counter and wrestling with a bottle of wine, grumbling to himself as he struggles to get it open. Eventually, the cork leaves the bottle with a quiet pop and he looks up, as if to see if anyone had heard him, only to find Paris- staring.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
She shakes her head.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, pouring wine into a mug.
“No,” she says.
He sighs, “Me neither. Perks of the job,” he says. He raises the wine bottle in her direction, “Would you like some?”
She pulls her flask out of the pocket of her sweatpants and Benji’s face screws up in disgust. “What?” she asks.
“Gross,” he comments. He doesn’t say that it reminds him of bad times. Often, it reminds her of the same. That’s why she drinks in the dark. “This, “ he says, gesturing to the wine bottle, “Is the good stuff… I think. To be honest, I don’t know much about wine but I do know it’s better than whatever grain alcohol you keep in that thing.”
She smiles a little at that and puts the flask back in her pocket. “Okay,” she says.
“Great!” Benji says, reaching for another mug, “Not the classiest way to drink the stuff but desperate times call for desperate measures. Here, come sit with me,” he says gesturing to the chair beside him.
She does as much, taking the mug from him and taking a sip as he does. It tastes vaguely fruity and very sugary but she doesn’t mind it.
“Did you even try to sleep?” he asks her.
“Not really,” she admits.
He sighs, “Me neither. I waited until Ethan dozed off and snuck away.”
Paris snorts at that a little, “Must have been hard.”
“Eh,” he says, “It’s a practiced art, really. Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows and has been keeping it to himself. It’s the little things, I guess.”
Paris doesn’t really know what to make of that but she nods along all the same.
“How’s the shoulder?” Benji asks.
“It stings,” she says, “I’ve had much worse.”
“A vague answer,” he murmurs, “You fit right in with this group.”
Sometimes, something about the way Benji talks feels very cynical. And sometimes, she can tell that he’s doing it for a laugh or being sarcastic intentionally but sometimes it feels.. Raw. Tonight is one of those times. She wonders how long he’s been this way or if that’s just how he always was. Something tells her it's the former.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“What?” he asks, “Running with Ethan? Twenty or so years. This field of work? Longer than that. But I didn’t become a field agent until I met Ethan.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he sighs, “The thing about Ethan Hunt is that he’ll burst into your life, a flurry of chaos and kindness, and he’ll bulldoze every wall you ever thought you had and you can either let that interaction consume you and become worse for it or you can cling to him like he’s your last ride out of hell and see where he takes you.”
Paris pauses at that. “You’re dramatic,” she says. But the thing is, as ridiculous as it sounds, she knows exactly what he means.
“I’m right and you know it.”
“Maybe,” she says, “I stayed because I owed him my life.”
“I think, actually, it was because we broke you out of prison. And kidnapped Degas in the same move… weird day, that was.” he trails off.
“Yeah,” she says, “But I could have left. We both could have. Ethan told me our score was settled.” He told that to her in Benji’s hospital room, over his unconscious but thankfully alive body in the middle of the room.
“So why are you still here?”
I don’t have anywhere left to go. I don’t want to be anywhere else. You taught me I deserved more. I don’t believe that but you make me want to. “You took me in, I guess,” she settles on.
“I suppose,” Benji agrees. “If it means anything, I like having you around. Even if you scare the shit out of me sometimes."
“I think that comes with the job.”
He shrugs, raises his mug of wine in a cheers motion and drinks.
Time passes like that for a while, chatting mildly and drinking. Well, really, Benji does most of the talking, but Paris is happy to listen, happy for the distraction. They open another bottle and part way through that he catches her staring at his arms again. “What?” he asks, “I have something on me?”
“No, your tattoos.”
“Oh!” he says. He’s wearing a T-Shirt and she’d only just realized it. “Yeah. I have quite a few now.”
“Do you want more?”
“Sure,” he says, “Always. They’re kind of addicting.”
She tilts her head at that.
He waves her off, “You know the- the..what? The pain? I don’t know. It’s therapeutic. And then you have something that looks cool afterwards.” He’s decidedly tipsy now. So is she, truthfully.
“Pain is therapeutic?” She asks.
“Sure,” he stretches the word out. “I guess. I’ve heard some people call it..” he pinches the bridge of his nose like the next part hurts him to say, “Socially acceptable self harm. But don’t tell anyone I said that, Ethan would freak.”
She nods somewhat hesitantly. “You have a point,” she says.
“I do?” he asks.
She nods, “It’s better than anything else you could be doing.” She pulls out her flask again and waves it as if to say see?
He points at her, “Thank you!” he says, “I could be so much worse if I really wanted to be, if I want to get a tattoo here or there then who cares!?” She wouldn’t call his tattoos here and there but she doesn’t mention that.
She nods, drinks the rest of her wine and pours another mug.
“Anyway,” he says, “Would you ever get a tattoo? You know, instead of drinking your problems away? Different vice? This is the city of vices so feel free to take your pick- though some I may condone less than others.”
She shoots him a playful glare as he rambles. “Probably,” she answers.
He nods, “You’ve got to get something cool. Like a- a sword or something.”
“Do any of your tattoos have meaning?” she asks suddenly.
“Some,” he says, “I have little nods to my life before the IMF, for example. But most of the time, it’s just whatever I think looks good or I feel like represents me.”
She chugs the rest of the wine in her mug and nearly slams it on the table, a great (drunk) idea popping into her head, “You should take me to get a tattoo!”
Benji’s eyes light up but he tries to maintain an air of professionalism even though all that flew out the window the minute they managed to pop the cork on the second bottle, “You’re joking.”
“I want one right now,” she declares impulsively, “Is anything open?”
“Mm,” Benji says, also chugging the rest of his wine, “Definitely, this is Vegas.”
“I’ve never been to Vegas," she says absentmindedly.
“A lot of things are 24 hours here,” Benji says before shaking his head, “No, no, I can not- in good conscience take you to get a tattoo while we’re both drunk.”
Paris rolls her eyes at him, “You said it yourself, city of vices!”
“Tattoos are permanent!” Benji persists, “This is the type of thing you’re supposed to- to think about!”
“How many of yours did you think about before you got them?” She asks, eyeing a particularly ridiculous looking tattoo of a shark poking out of Benji’s shirt sleeve.
Benji follows her gaze and covers the tattoo defensively, “Do as I say, not as I do,” he says, “And I’ll have you know I’m quite fond of Herbert.”
“You named your tattoo?”
“That’s what he was labeled on the artist’s flash sheet.”
“I still want a tattoo.”
“I can’t let you get a drunk tattoo!”
“What’s this about a tattoo?” Grace asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. She’s wide awake but her hair is tousled and her eyes are bloodshot.
Paris looks back to Benji, “What about with sober supervision?”
Benji stares at her, long and suffering.
“We could get matching tattoos,” she tries to tempt him, “That way, even if it’s a dumb idea it’ll be meaningful because..” The words get caught in her throat. Because it’d be a dumb idea she did with him. Someone who means so much to her. Someone she’s stupidly attached to after less than a year of knowing him. Ethan Hunt may be the one that lights the fire in you but it’s Benji Dunn who keeps it burning.
Benji blinks at her, his eyes glistening and his lips parted like there’s something he wants to say but nothing ever comes out. Finally, he turns to Grace and asks, “Grace, would you be so kind as to accompany us to a tattoo parlor?"
Grace’s eyes bug out of her head, “You’re getting a tattoo? At this hour?”
“Firstly, we are getting a tattoo,” he says, gesturing between himself and Paris, “And secondly- do you have anything better to do? It’s not like any of us were sleeping.”
“I was-”
Benji gives her a pointed look.
Then, sheepishly, “I had a nightmare.”
“All the better to come with us and forget it then,” Benji says. He turns back to Paris, briefly sobering up enough to point her in the right direction, “Paris, Go put on some shoes- and a hat!”
“Why do I need a hat?”
“If I recall correctly you and all your platinum blonde hair fell five floors in broad daylight earlier today and I’m only drunk enough to do one stupid thing tonight.”
“Can you two stop speaking in French for five minutes?” Grace asks, “Why do you need me?”
“Because you’re sober,” Paris supplies, retrieving her stolen hat from the day’s earlier mission.
“You’re drunk?” Grace asks.
“Tipsy!” Benji corrects for her.
“Tipsy enough to want a tattoo?” Grace asks incredulously, watching as the two of them try to gather themselves enough to leave the building.
“Yes,” Paris says, “I want.. Ink therapy. ” She’s just repeating what she heard Benji say earlier but she understands it now, at least in her own way.
“C’mon Grace,” Benji says, scribbling something down on a loose piece of paper, “Are you in or are you out?”
Grace looks between them, unamused. Paris does her best approximation of the pleading eyes of a puppy. Grace caves and goes with them to the nearest tattoo shop in the area.
After that, it all happens quite fast. The tattoo artist is a calm and kind woman with full sleeves of intricate tattoos that spends a lot of time talking to Benji about his work both during his session and hers. She shows them a book of flash tattoo designs and eventually Paris spots the one she wants. Pointing to it she turns to Benji expectantly.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Tattoos are supposed to have meaning, right?” She asks.
“Oh,” Benji says softly, “Okay. Then yes, that one.”
Benji goes first. He’s having an animated conversation with the tattoo artist about god knows what, some pop culture reference he spotted in one of her sleeves, and Paris and Grace are sat off to the side, doing much of nothing, when Grace asks, “Why Benji?”
“What?” Paris asks.
“I mean.. I know you’re close. But just.. Why a matching tattoo with him?”
“I like him. He’s nice to me.”
“We’re all nice to you!”
“Are you jealous?” Paris asks bluntly.
There’s a tinge of pink to Grace’s cheeks when she replies with, “No!”
“We can get matching tattoos next,” Paris assures her.
Grace clears her throat, “Sure. You tell me how bad it hurts first.”
“I’m good with pain.”
Grace frowns.
“What?”
“I don’t like that,” Grace says. “I mean, I’m glad you can handle pain and all but…” she turns her back to the tattoo artist, “You walked off a gunshot today.”
“And?” Paris asks.
“And.. I don’t know. I wish you didn’t have to. I wish you could just… be. I wish we all could, really. I guess I’m not quite used to the whole.. having made the choice thing yet.”
Paris hums acknowledgment and then reaches over tentatively to grab Grace’s hand, “If it wasn’t for the choice I would probably be in prison right now,” she says, talking in hushed tones, “And you’d probably end up there too. Or dead.”
“Wh-”
“Rob the wrong person.”
“Ah. I have done that before.”
“And look where it got you,” Paris says.
“Things could be a lot worse.”
“They could,” Paris says, “But all things considered… I like it.”
Grace smiles, “Yeah.” There’s a pause as she turns their hands over, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“What?’
“Having someone watching my back.”
Paris knows that feeling well. “Me neither. But I have every intention of doing it for as long as I can.”
“Likewise.”
“Okay, lovebirds!” Benji announces, clapping hands on their shoulders and making them jump three feet into the air, “Paris, you’re up.”
“You’re done?” She asks.
“Yup!” he says, gesturing to the bandage over his arm.
“Are you still drunk?” Grace asks.
“Nope!” Benji says, “Just also watching your back is all.” He nods in the direction of the chair, “C’mon!”
Paris gets her tattoo on the lower left side of her stomach. “Gnarly scar,” the artist comments,
“Thank you. I almost died.”
The artist blinks at her.
“You could at least try to be personable, she is permanently altering your body, you know” Benji says.
“What would you say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t get tattoos where I have to take my shirt off anymore if I don’t have to.”
“They always like this?” The artist asks, glancing over at Grace.
“When they get started with each other, yes.” Grace answers.
“You understand any of it?”
“No.”
Paris likes speaking French to Benji. She likes that he made a point to do so with her. Sometimes, it feels like their own language. Ethan knows it, sure, but he seems to recognize the importance of it to them- or at least to her. But she figures if Benji is getting a tattoo with her, it might hold importance to him too after all.
Some odd hours later, the three of them leave the tattoo parlor. The sun is coming up now and Paris’ skin itches a little in the spot covered by the bandage, but Grace is pulling into a drive thru and Benji is humming along to a song on the radio and she only has a slight wine headache. And when they get back to the safe house, confronted by a less than happy Ethan Hunt and a mildly annoyed Theo Degas, Paris is only a little worried.
“Gone to get inked, took the girls, be back soon?” Ethan asks, holding up Benji’s chicken scratch of a goodbye note.
“In my defense, I was a teensy bit drunk.”
“You’re so lucky I can track you.”
“Desperately so,” Benji agrees. “I’m sorry we ran off in the middle of the night but I promise you it was worth it. Paris got her first tattoo!”
Degas perks up at that, “Oh?”
Ethan dismisses him, “Benji..” he says exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” Benji says earnestly, “I didn’t mean to worry you, honestly.”
“Well you did,” Ethan says, “You could have at least woke me up.”
“You barely sleep as is,” Benji says, “I couldn’t sleep and neither could Paris and we got a little carried away, there’s only so many ways I can apologize. I’m not incompetent Ethan, you know I was careful.”
Ethan nods, looking exhausted.
“Grace, how did you get roped into this?” Degas asks from the couch.
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Grace says, “But we brought back food?” She offers, holding up a brown paper bag of breakfast burritos. Paris is holding a tray of coffees, standing there awkwardly as Benji and Ethan have a bit of a couple’s spat.
Degas decides he’s over the whole thing once the burrito peace offering is presented and his movement manages to break Grace and Paris from their statue state, moving to set everything down.
Behind her, Benji says, “Yours has a protein tortilla.”
“Mm,” Ethan grumbles, conceding, “You got a tattoo too?”
Benji brightens, “I did! We got matching ones.”
“Show them! Show them!” Degas chants, him and Grace already seated at the dining table.
Ethan goes to join them as Benji returns to her side. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Benji announces, beginning to peel at his bandage. Paris follows suit. “I present to you all….. Our tattoos!”
It’s a knife. A switchblade-esque one that, by some sort of insane happenstance, looks like the one that Benji handed her in the server room. Not because she wanted to remember it as some awful thing but because she wanted to remember it as the moment that changed her life- for the better, that is.
Ethan looks slightly taken aback but then he smiles, “It suits you. Both of you.” It doesn’t feel like he’s talking just about the tattoo.
Paris would be inclined to agree.