The Cousin

A/N: He probably still has some family hanging around...

I remember the day I met Cousin Ethan. It was not something anyone would easily forget, and certainly not me—a boy whose action heroes seemed to have come to life.

It was late on a Friday night—or, at least, late for a twelve-year-old kid like me. I was home alone (my parents on a date night and my older sister out with her friends) playing video games in the basement when I heard something that might have been the doorbell. I cocked my headphones off one ear but didn't hear anything else, so I shrugged and went back to my game. A few minutes later, I finished the level and decided to make some popcorn. While it was popping in the kitchen microwave, I wandered over to the front window, just to check if I'd missed something, after all.

I froze, disbelieving, at the sight of a man slumped on our front porch.

The microwave beeped its proscribed two-and-a-half minutes, accompanied by the smell of slightly scorched popcorn.

I opened the front door.

That was stupid, I know. I should have called Mom and Dad immediately, or even nine-one-one, definitely shouldn't have opened the door to a stranger like that. But here was an adventure dropped right in my lap! Besides, I told myself, the man seemed hurt; I should check to see if he needed an ambulance before I called anyone, right?

So I opened the door. The hallway light showed the man's plain, dark clothes, but his face was still in shadow, slumped as he was against the side railing. He didn't stir.

"Hello?" I asked, rather more timidly than I'd intended. "Hey, uh, sir?"

No response. I stepped closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder, then suddenly jerked back as he shuddered awake. He groaned, struggling toward a more upright position. His face caught the light, eyes blinking against the glare and coming into focus on my face. He stiffened.

"Uh…hey," I offered, lamely. "You…okay?"

His forehead creased. "Who are you?"

"Luke," I replied, accurately but probably not very usefully. "Dillon," I added, as though that would help.

To my surprise, it seemed like it did. The man's eyes sharpened, glancing around the dark front yard to the lighted hallway behind me. "Frank Dillon?" he asked.

"He's my dad," I said. "I, uh, could call him?"

"Can I come in?" he asked, suddenly more urgent.

"Uh..." I stepped back as the man shakily gained his feet. "Yeah, okay. Sure." He took two stumbling steps through the doorway, then slumped against the wall of the front entry. He reached over, closing the door and throwing the deadbolt, then slid to the ground, breathing rapidly.

"I'll just…call Dad?"

He nodded tightly. "Please."

I rushed to grab the kitchen phone, dialing as I returned to the entryway. In the hall light the man was more visible, but I couldn't see any particular injuries. His eyes had closed again but they flicked open as Dad answered his phone.

"Hey, Luke, what's up?"

"Yeah, uh, hey Dad. I'm, uh, there's…I'm not sure." I paused, suddenly unsure how to explain.

Dad's voice sharpened. "You okay? What's going on?"

The man, taking pity on my struggle, gestured toward the phone. I nodded. "I'm putting the phone on speaker, Dad. There's someone here asking for you." I pressed the button as I heard Dad's confused "okay?" I dropped cross-legged on the floor and set the phone on the ground between us.

"Hello, Frank," the man said, softly.

There was a sharp inhale. "Ethan?" Dad's voice was low but sounded startled, maybe even angry. "What are you doing at my house?" Then, without waiting for an answer—"Carol, we need to go—yes, now—here."

There were several moments of background noise and indecipherable voices, then I heard mom's voice suddenly become clear as Dad flipped on speaker as well. "Frank, what is it? Is Luke okay?" Their car rumbled to life in the background.

"Ethan?" Dad said again, even more sharply.

"Sorry, Frank," the man said, shifting more upright again and tipping his head back against the wall. "There was nowhere else I could go. I didn't know your son would be home alone."

Dad cursed, suddenly. I startled. Mom said, "Frank!" but she sounded more worried than rebuking.

"I'm sorry," the man—Ethan—said again.

Dad sighed, heavily. "Just tell me Luke's not in any danger," he bit out.

I looked at Ethan nervously. His eyes met mine. "No."

Dad's voice dropped again, an accusing hiss. "And can I trust that?"

Ethan winced, but his gaze never wavered. "Yes."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

"Dad," I said at last, unable to ignore Ethan's shallow breathing and the pained creases lining his face, "he's hurt." I grimaced at the man apologetically as I spoke; he seemed like an action hero straight out of my stories, a man who would never show his belly if he could help it. But instead of growing annoyed, the man smiled at me—it transformed his face enormously. I grinned back, helpless to do anything else.

"How bad, Ethan?" Dad asked, voice grim. "I won't have you dying in my house."

"Frank!" Mom said again, appalled. My mouth dropped open. I'd never heard Dad sound so callous.

But Ethan answered succinctly, seeming unsurprised. "I'm drugged, not wounded. I'm currently about—" he looked at me—"what time is it?"

"Uh…" I scooted back to glance at the kitchen clock, "nine-thirty?"

"—fifteen minutes into being injected with an experimental interrogation drug. I don't know what it will make me say, but it should be kicking in here in the next ten minutes or so. I needed somewhere to lay low until it's out of my system. Somewhere whatever I say can't do any damage."

"And you couldn't go to your spy buddies, why?"

I looked at the man wide-eyed. He didn't glance up from the phone.

"Frank," Ethan said quietly, tension in his eyes, "This isn't like last time."

Dad exhaled, a sharp huff of breath through his teeth. "Fine. You can stay—but just for the night. And keep away from my boy. Luke—"

"Ethan, was it?" Mom's voice, quiet but determined, interrupted. Dad, unwilling to talk over her, fell silent.

"Yes ma'am—sorry about this."

"Carol's fine. What do you need, Ethan?"

Ethan's face relaxed. "Just a locked door between me and anyone I can't trust, which your son has already provided."

"That's ridiculous," Mom declared. I grinned suddenly at that tone, usually used to scold me, being directed elsewhere for a change. "Luke, show the man to the couch and heat him up some leftovers. Oh, and get him some water. We'll be home in a couple of minutes—you'll be okay if we hang up now? I want to talk to your dad."

"Carol—" Dad began as I replied, "Sure, Mom." The call disconnected.

I turned back to Ethan, who had a faint grin on his face. "Are you really a spy?" I asked, unable to contain the question even as I hopped up and gestured toward the living room, reaching out to help him.

Ethan took my hand and, braced against the wall, heaved himself to his feet. I let him lean on my shoulder as he stumbled the short distance to the couch, then stared at him with anticipation.

He looked back at me intently. I squirmed a bit under the gaze and was about to apologize when he sighed and sank back into the couch cushions. "If this night goes the way I expect, you'll know a lot more than that by the end," he muttered, then smiled at me again. "Yes, Luke. I'm a spy."

I opened my mouth to say something—I'm still not sure what it would have been—when headlights glared through the front window. "Oh—food!" I dashed off to the kitchen, shoved some spaghetti in the microwave (after dumping the cold burnt popcorn in the trash), and was filling a glass of water when the front door opened.

Mom came to the kitchen, lips pursed and eyes wide. She immediately hugged me, whispering in my ear, "Stay here for a moment."

Dad went to the living room, and he may have intended to keep his voice down, but sound carried in that house. Mom and I heard every word.

"Who injected you with that drug? Where are they now?" No pleasantries—Dad started off with an interrogation right away.

"Dead," said Ethan shortly. My jaw dropped; Mom's grip tightened on my shoulder. I wondered what Dad's face showed.

A grim laugh. "And that's that, huh? You couldn't possibly have led anyone here, 'cause you killed them?"

Ethan was silent.

Dad huffed and moved on. "Why did you come here?"

"Only place I knew I could reach before the drug kicked in. My team is on the way but won't be here 'til morning."

"And what, exactly, will this drug make you do?"

"Spill my guts, I suppose," Ethan replied, casually.

Eventually Dad sighed. "Carol," he called.

Mom stepped to the doorway. I followed with the water glass.

"Call Casey, please. See if she can stay with the Martins for the night. And then—Luke!"

I froze halfway to the couch.

Dad turned back to Ethan. "Disarm," he demanded.

"Frank," Ethan said softly, "that's not a good idea."

"No one's coming, you said! Disarm, if you want to stay."

"Frank…" Mom's voice trailed off, uncertain. Ethan's eyes flicked to her, and me, then he reached for his waistband.

"Knives, too?" he asked, shortly, as he pulled out a handgun, released the magazine, and cleared the chamber before laying it on the coffee table.

"What do you think?"

Two fixed-blades and a folding knife joined the gun. Dad stepped forward, dumped out a half-full basket of catalogues, swept the weapons into it with a clatter—Ethan winced—and moved toward the hallway.

"Frank!"

Dad froze.

"Not out of my sight." Ethan's voice was suddenly hard and authoritative. I gulped. Dad, after a moment, redirected toward the coat closet. He glared at Ethan as he closed the door on the basket of weapons, daring him to protest.

"Thank you," Ethan said.

Dad strode toward the kitchen, fists clenched. "Never mind," he muttered to Mom as he passed, "I'll call Casey."

Ethan sighed again. I noticed he was shivering. I glanced at Mom then took him the glass of water. He drank it, spilling a bit as he shook, then handed the glass back with a nod of thanks. Mom dug a blanket out of the ottoman and offered it.

"Is there anything else we can do?" she asked softly. "Luke was heating food, but…"

Ethan shook his head. "No time. And no, nothing—except to forget everything you hear from this room." Another deep shiver wracked his body and he slumped further back into the couch. His breathing grew even faster.

Mom nodded. "Good luck," she said, taking my shoulder to propel me toward the kitchen.

"Wait!" I said, turning back to look at Ethan, the suddenly bleak expression on his face, the stress lines around his eyes. "Can I—do you want—" I stuttered. "I could…stay?"

His mouth quirked; the stress lines relaxed, just a little. "Thanks, Luke—but no. You don't—" he hissed suddenly—"need to hear this."

I hesitated again.

"Please go," he whispered.

We went.

Back in the kitchen, Mom silently put the spaghetti back into the fridge as I set the glass by the sink. Then she gestured me toward the stairs. We passed Dad in the hallway.

"Frank," Mom whispered. He shook his head and we moved on.

Upstairs, we went to my room and shut the door. I sat on the floor; Mom joined me.

"What happened?" she asked.

I relayed my side of the story, then asked, "What'd Dad say? Who is he?"

Mom sighed. "His name is Ethan Hunt. He's your dad's cousin on Grandma Ruth's side—you remember your Aunt Margaret?"

I nodded—before she died, she had helped run the dairy farm we had visited occasionally.

"Ethan is her son, hers and Nathan's." I had never met my great-uncle Nathan; he died before I was born. "I knew of Ethan by name, in the way—oh, you know, sweetie, in the way you know of the Oppenhauers." The Oppenhauer kids were my second cousins; I might be able to name one or two of them, but if we'd ever met I didn't remember it, and I certainly couldn't tell you anything else about them. "But, in the car, your dad told me—" she huffed a laugh and tousled my hair—"it should seem almost unbelievable. But apparently he's some kind of secret agent, very skilled, very dangerous…" Mom bit her lip worriedly.

I elbowed her playfully. Sure, the man I met downstairs was dangerous—but that didn't mean I was frightened of him, not anymore. "He's not gonna hurt us, Mom. Come on!"

She smiled at me. "I agree. But your dad…he's worried. He didn't have time to tell me everything in the car, but…something bad happened the last time he saw Ethan. I hope…" she trailed off.

I leaned into her side and opened my mouth to say again that Ethan seemed, well, nice.

But I was interrupted by an anguished shout.

We both jumped to our feet and hurried back downstairs. Dad caught us in the hallway, shaking his head grimly—from the front room, we now heard what sounded like shuddering sobs. I tightened my hand on Mom's arm. Ethan's sobs turned to desperate words.

"No, no, Jim…Claire…how could you? How could you? You killed them….you killed them! No…Julia! Julia! No!"

"Take Luke back upstairs," Dad said, shortly.

Mom nodded and whispered, "Come on. We can't help him—and he didn't want you to hear, remember?" I went with her reluctantly, straining to hear more until we were behind my door again, out of range of all but the loudest shouts.

We both winced as another one of those reached our ears.

"You want to go to the basement instead?" Mom asked with a bit of forced cheer. "We could play one of those games you've been wanting to show me."

I bit my lip. It would be a relief to put on headphones, drown out the yells for a bit, but—"No, thanks, Mom." I paused, struggling to put my reluctance into words. "It just feels like…we shouldn't just ignore him, you know? Even if we can't help?"

She nodded slowly, then pulled me against her side. "My good boy," she whispered into my hair.

And so we sat there together on the floor of my room for the whole night, drifting in and out of sleep, terrified shouts weaving through my shallow dreams…

…until I woke again, and suddenly I was alone, and it was morning.

I jumped up, stumbling and hopping as I realized my foot had fallen asleep under me. I yawned, shook out my hair, ran to the bathroom, checked my parents' room (it was empty), and then, warily, walked downstairs.

I peeked into the living room and felt a flash of disappointment: the blanket Mom had dug out last night was folded neatly on the couch, and the room was empty.

Then I wandered into the kitchen—and grinned. Ethan Hunt sat at the island, mug of coffee in his hand, looking somewhat better than last night. He gave me a wan smile as I stood in the doorway, suddenly rather shy.

"Good morning, Luke," he said at last when it became clear I was frozen. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to scare you."

I scoffed, walking to the fridge to poor myself some orange juice. "I wasn't scared."

His smile grew wider. "Brave kid."

I preened but tried not to show it. "Where's Mom and Dad?"

He tilted his head toward the hallway. "Sunroom. Discussing me, I think."

I nodded, biting my lip.

"Go on, ask."

"You're really a spy?" I blurted out.

He nodded.

"What do you do?"

"Lots of pretending to be someone else. Lots of breaking into places I'm not supposed to be. Lots of bruises." He grimaced and rolled his shoulders.

"What happened to you yesterday?"

But even before I finished asking the question he was shaking his head. "Sorry, I can't talk specifics. Anything you overheard last night is more than enough."

I lowered my voice. "Was all of that…real?"

He eyed me again, gaze intent. I looked back as seriously as I could—because I certainly wasn't joking, or trying to making light of anything.

"Yes." He spoke with finality.

I dropped the subject.

The doorbell rang. I looked up at my cousin—cousin!—wide-eyed.

"Probably my team," he said, getting up from the barstool. "Stay here—I'll make sure."

I decided to interpret his words broadly and followed him to the kitchen doorway. He looked back at me wryly as he retrieved his handgun from the coat closet but didn't order me back.

He edged toward the door on smooth, soundless feet, gun held lightly by his ear, suddenly the incarnation of all my action heroes. I gaped. He stood flat with his back to the wall, eyeing the porch through the sheer curtains. "Benji?" he called, loudly, through the door.

"Ethan!" A relieved voice, male and British. "Are you okay? Why did you come here?"

"Blue is glue," Ethan said steadily, ignoring the questions. "What's red?"

"Dead," the voice answered promptly.

Ethan opened the door.

"Are you okay?" the British man repeated urgently as he came inside followed by a woman.

"I'm fine," said Ethan, quirking a smile at them as he closed and locked the door again. "Benji, Jane, this is my cousin Luke." He gestured at me as he returned the gun to the hall closet. "Luke, my teammates, Benji and Jane."

"Your cousin?" the woman—Jane—asked incredulously, as Benji walked over to me with a smile, holding out a hand.

"Hello, Ethan's cousin Luke," he said. I shook his hand numbly.

"Ethan!" Dad's shout interrupted the introductions. "Tell me you didn't open the…" His voice trailed off as he and Mom came into view of our guests.

Ethan's face, animated by the reunion with his team, tightened again. "Frank, Carol," he said, "my colleagues, Benjamin Dunn and Jane Carter. Benji, Jane, this is Frank and Carol Dillon. Luke's parents. They were kind enough to let me stay here last night.

Benji immediately walked over to shake hands, but Jane narrowed her eyes at Ethan. He gave a single, authoritative shake of his head, and she pursed her lips but nodded.

"Your team is here," Dad said shortly, "and the drug is out of your system. Leave, Ethan."

The pinched look around Ethan's eyes got worse, and Jane glared at Dad; but Ethan just nodded and began to move to retrieve his weapons.

"No."

He stopped.

"Carol—" Dad warned.

"No, Frank! I know what you just told me. I get it, okay? But we won't treat family like this! There's no immediate danger, right?" She glanced at the agents.

"All clear," Benji confirmed.

"Then you're staying for breakfast."

"Carol," said Ethan, "I appreciate it. But I won't stay here any longer against your husband's will." He turned back to Dad. "I'm sorry, Frank. You should never have been involved last time—I was young and stupid and desperate, and Jack almost died for it. And I'll try my best to never bother you again. But—" his voice dropped low—"regrets are a hard thing to live with, and even harder to die with. Can we at least part as family?" He held out his hand.

I held my breath. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence.

At last Dad sighed, dropped his head, and turned half away. "Stay for breakfast," he muttered.

Ethan lowered his hand but nodded, face easing. "Thank you."

"Right!" Benji clapped his hands, "breakfast. Do you need help, Mrs. Dillon?" And with that, we all moved into the kitchen.

Breakfast went by much quicker than I wanted. The agents couldn't stay for long, and Dad was still tense. But I took advantage of the time by peppering Ethan with as many questions as I could. I called him cousin, just to try it, and I would savor his smile and Jane's approving look for days.

And when the agents left, Dad held out his hand for Ethan to shake.

I haven't seen Cousin Ethan again since that day. Despite his familial concessions, Dad didn't invite him back, and I don't think Ethan expected him to. But he did leave instructions for how to contact him, if we ever need help. Casey, when she came home near midday yawning her head off, whined furiously when she learned she'd missed meeting our cousin the spy. I don't blame her; despite my near-sleepless night and the strained look on Dad's face that took a while to fade, I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

It's wrong, of course, to hope for some emergency that would justify digging that unmarked number out of the back of the address book—but I can't say I haven't tried to come up with something bad enough to call Ethan, but not so bad as to actually hurt anyone, that I could wish for without feeling guilty. Because I'm glad to have met him; I hope he's okay; and I'd like to see him again someday—my cousin, the spy.

A/N: ...we'll see if Luke gets any continuing adventures :)