Hey all! Two quick things: one, I was looking back over my previous chapter and I noticed an error. Jet fuel does actually burn and combust. I just remembered seeing the Mythbusters hold a lighter to its liquid form and nothing happened, so I assumed the same would occur in the event on a bomb on a private jet. Then I looked it up and found I was wrong, though I am not positive if it has to be in a gaseous state to explode or not. Honestly I'm a little confused at this point myself, but I just wanted to point out I was wrong and I am sorry. (I tried to go back and fix it, but I'm still having a bit of trouble navigating my account, so forgive me.) For all intents and purposes though, it was a second bomb that went off and launched Ethan out the window, though the fuel was in there somewhere.

Thing two, thank you all who have reviewed. I know I PM you thanks as well, but just wanted to put it out here as well. Your feedback means a ton to me and really bolsters my enthusiasm to keep writing these stories. Thanks a bunch.

On with the show!

Chapter Two– The Valley of the Shadow

"Hey, um, you're needed!"

The unfamiliar voice jolted Agent William Brandt out of his music-induced stupor and sent him stumbling out of the shower stall with a towel around his waist and a scowl on his face. "Excuse me?"

He'd been in the middle of one of his secret empty locker room jam sessions–at least he'd thought they were secret, until Ethan pushed him onto a five-day leave for fear of insanity and Jane had produced that tape of him singing "Layla" in the shower.

He swore he'd never, ever give her reason to be pissed off at him again.

But right now, the locker room was deserted with no agents arriving for a while, and Jane and Ethan weren't here. Brandt had just come in from another brief, heavy operation, in which he was not only punched in the face about ninety freaking times but also chucked down a flight of stairs while wrestling with their target, who was, of course, built like goddamn Mr. Olympia. By the time they had gotten back to the base he was exhausted, achy, black-eyed, and in a bad enough mood to give a whole new meaning to the phrase "death glare." He was in desperate need of unwinding and un-grossing with a radio and an endless supply of hot water. Any interruptions, living or otherwise, were in danger of incineration.

So he had to consciously restrain himself from laying into the nervous-looking kid before him until there was nothing left but a little heap of ash where he now stood. "The building had better on fire, corporal," he growled.

The intern gulped. "Sorry, Agent Brandt, but the Secretary sent me to come get you. She says she needs to speak with you."

Brandt groaned, scrubbing a hand over his still-wet face. "You gotta be kidding me. Can't it wait until tomorrow? I have a date with the nearest horizontal surface."

The intern bit his lip. "I'm really sorry sir, but she said it was urgent. Five minutes." He turned on his heel and practically bolted from the locker room.

Brandt sighed before groaning again. He made his way over to the bench where his clothes lay piled and started yanking them on, his movements stiff with fatigue. His body ached, but already his mind was racing. Once an analyst, always an analyst.

It was unusual for the Secretary to call him in at the end of the day. Not another mission already, was it? Despite five day's leave, Brandt needed at least eight hours of unbroken dreamtime tonight if he was to keep from falling over.

But if it wasn't a new directive, Brandt thought with a frown, there was only one logical explanation: something was wrong, and it involved him.

Maybe he was getting fired. When his abused back muscles gave a hideous wrench as he pulled his shirt on, Brandt wasn't sure that would entirely unwelcome. He finished dressing and staggered out of the locker room, leaving the rest of his gear behind.

One elevator ride later and he was outside the Secretary's office. He squared his aching shoulders and went inside.

Right away, he knew something was off. It took him all of two seconds to figure out what.

The Secretary seated behind her desk in the middle of the room, her fingers steepled: normal. The books lining the walls, the windows overlooking the surrounding area, the chairs arranged around the room and before the Secretary's desk: normal. The occupants of those chairs who turned their heads to see him arrive: not normal.

Benji and Jane, both in their field clothes, looked calm, but Brandt could see the confusion in their eyes. Brandt felt some of his weariness be replaced with suspicion and worry when he saw too the empty chair on Jane's left, where Ethan usually sat. They were missing the fourth member of the team.

"Brandt," said the Secretary, drawing his attention back to her. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, have a seat."

Brandt studied her face as he sat down. She was a stern woman in her forties with coffee skin and long black hair done in hundreds of tiny braids. Today her countenance, usually shuttered and businesslike, was heavy with care. Brandt felt his worry increase.

"Secretary," he said carefully. "If I may ask, what is this about?"

She sighed almost silently; it was more just a slump of her shoulders and hands. "Brandt, you know I can't answer that on duty." She grimaced. "But I've just been informed of some bad news, which I have called you here to share, as it concerns you. I want you to know it pains me as much as it will you."

Brandt felt all the blood drain from his face, though he did not change his expression.

"Secretary," said Benji, "Where's Ethan? If this concerns the team, he should be here." Brandt felt Jane tense with him, hanging on her reply.

The Secretary's hands fell flat onto the table. A muscle in her jaw worked. "Actually, it concerns him. Agent Hunt was on a mission in London for the past week with Agents Berns and Harvey. They had completed the mission and were on their way home via IMF issue jet." She wouldn't meet any of their eyes. "This afternoon at around fifteen hundred hours, an explosion of unknown origin went off inside the jet, causing it to crash off the west coast of England." The Secretary took a breath. "As far as we know, all passengers and crew were lost."

Brandt felt like he'd been socked in the gut. To his surprise Jane didn't miss a beat. "Have any bodies been found?" she asked, her voice steady.

The Secretary grimaced again. "We've analyzed the wreckage. The explosion," she said carefully, "produced a fire of over a thousand degrees that would have surged through the plane seconds after the detonation. What little wreckage we have found has been charred almost beyond identification of the material. We believe it was a bomb, though nothing is proven yet. One thing for certain is that it is extremely unlikely anyone could have gotten out in time, and no one still inside could have survived. If the initial detonation did not kill them, the jet fuel catching fire would have. I don't think there will be any bodies left to find, Jane." Jane started at the use of her first name, as well as the sympathy in the Secretary's voice, even as Brandt saw Jane's hand fist in her lap until the knuckles turned white.

The Secretary looked into each of their faces for the first time, and there was an honest grief there. "I'm not saying don't hope. But I think you should all start coming to terms with the fact that Ethan is most likely not coming home."

For a moment there was silence as the three agents felt the words sink in. Not coming home. Not coming home. Not coming–

Brandt felt his hands going cold.

No. He would not go into shock. He'd grieve later, alone, but not here, not when he needed to be strong for his team. He stared hard at his hands in his lap, grounding himself. He could not speak. Luckily, they were there for him, as always.

"Will that be all, Secretary?" Benji asked hoarsely.

The Secretary sighed again, fully this time. "I am giving each of you a week's leave to process this. I know how much Ethan Hunt meant to each of you, especially as a leader. You should have some time to cope with his dea–disappearance. Other than that, yes, that is all." She steepled her hands again. "Again, I am sorry. He was truly the best of us, and he will be sorely missed. I wish you all the best of luck."

They knew their cue to leave. The agents rose and made for the door. Brandt kept his face blank, but his innards felt like they had been ground up and mixed with a cocktail of guilt, disbelief, and despair.

The office door shut behind them. Brandt looked up at Jane and Benji, his throat closing. Jane's lip trembled, but she did not cry. Tears were already gathering at the corners of Benji's eyes, but he would not let them fall either. It was not in their nature, in their training, to let emotion take control, even after losing a friend. Especially then.

For a second the three just looked at each other.

Brandt rubbed his eyes. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice almost foreign in his ears.

Sudden anger flashed in Jane's eyes. "We hope," she said fiercely. "This is Ethan Hunt we're talking about. He's survived worse. And we have no proof he's dead. They haven't found a body."

"We have no reason to believe he's alive either, Jane," Brandt shot back. "I mean, come on. It's Ethan, but do you think even he could survive an exploding plane and falling thousands of feet into the ocean?" He knew it was despair talking, but he couldn't keep the harsh words back.

Jane took a step forward. "What, you want us just to give up, Brandt?"

Brandt matched her step so they were practically nose-to-nose. "I'm saying be realistic! There's no use for hope when there's nothing to hope for! It just gets you burned in the end."

"Do you even want him to come back?"

Brandt snarled. She'd gone too far. "I course I do, Jane! You think I don't feel as shitty as you–"

"All right, KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!" Benji yelled.

Hearing the angry words coming out of their usually laid-back techie was enough to freeze Brandt mid-yell. He and Jane both looked at him in shock.

Benji's face was red with anger. "That's enough! Do you really think this is the time or place for a bitchfight? We're outside of the bloody Secretary's office! You're being effing children!" Tears spilled down his cheeks even as he kept yelling. "Ethan would not want us acting this way. You need to calm the hell down. We're all hurting. Grow up, both of you." He took his jacket from his arm and slung it angrily over his shoulder. "And now, I'm going to get shitfaced. Have a nice evening." Benji lifted his computer bag and stomped down the hallway, into the stairwell, and out of sight.

Brandt looked at Jane. She was still fuming. She put on her jacket and walked angrily away without saying a word. The door slammed behind her and echoed off the tile floors.

Brandt felt the anger draining out of him, leaving in its wake a bilious self-hatred. He stared at the place where seconds before, he'd had a team, before he'd driven them away with stupid words or lost them to a bomb.

And now, once again, he was alone.

Brandt started running.

He ran to the stairwell, down the steps three at a time, and out the entry hall, ignoring the startled calls of the people he rushed by. He burst out the doors into the Virginia evening.

Benji had given him a ride this morning, which meant he was getting home on foot. It was a good six miles to the tiny apartment where he dropped himself between missions, if he wasn't with the team. The meeting house where they planned missions and held occasional movie nights was closer, but it technically belonged to Ethan, and the thought of going there without his team made Brandt want to throw up.

He thought for a moment, then started running again, toward his apartment. It was winter, and his breath steamed in the air, but he didn't care. He needed his muscles to burn and his lungs to feel frozen in his chest. Sometimes only by being in pain could he remind himself he was alive.

Brandt ran. He kept running even after nightfall when the temperature dropped, kept running through the rough parts of the city where the shadow shells of people huddled around bottles, ran under light and through the darkness. He ran until his entire body felt on fire, but the pain did not touch his mind. Inside, he was alone with his grief and guilt. He knew this wasn't like him; he rarely lost control like this. But something inside him had cracked, was in danger of breaking entirely, and he had to run and run and run….

He'd left the base around sundown. It was near ten when he finally reached his apartment. He stopped before the door, his chest heaving. He was in good shape–he had to be, as a field agent–but a run that long in air this cold had even him doubled over until he recovered.

Brandt straightened. He was alone under the streetlight, but the darkness around him still had his agent senses prickling. He fished in his pocket for his keys.

His fingers brushed only fabric. The pocket was empty.

With a jolt, Brandt realized he'd left his keys in his bag…with all of his other gear….back at Langley…in the goddamn locker room.

That was the feather that broke the camel's back. Brandt felt all the air go out of his lungs. He slid down the apartment building wall and pulled his knees to his chest. All the weight of the day–the exhaustion from the previous mission, the shock of hearing about Ethan, the fatigue from the run–fell down on him with the force of a landslide. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. After a second, he realized he was crying. Hard. Tears made cold tracks down his cheeks.

God, he hated crying. He hadn't cried in years. But here he was, huddled against a wall, sobbing his eyes out and unable to stop.

He wasn't sure whom he was crying for, either. Himself? Out of guilt and self-pity? For his team, for driving them away? For Ethan?

Honestly, he wasn't sure what he felt when he thought about his team leader. He'd gone through so much pain at the hands of Ethan Hunt, even if he was really just collateral damage. He'd sacrificed a job, believed he'd gotten an innocent woman killed, and gotten dragged all over the world once back in field service because of him. But scars healed, and after spending over a year as a solid team with Ethan as their leader, Brandt had forgiven him without even realizing it. Ethan had earned his loyalty and friendship ten times over. But now he was dead, and Brandt had never actually told him to his face that he didn't hold anything against him anymore. The knowledge of this made Brandt feel guilty to the point of nausea. He breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth, struggling to bring his typhoon of emotion under control. Normally, he was so good at this; doing what the trainers had told him to, putting aside feeling and fear, keeping self-control at all times. Brandt was an analyst, for Christ's sake, or had been at least. Logic and cold facts were his medium, his belief. He had leaned on them for so long, not letting his emotions get out of hand.

But tonight, he had lost something, and for once he wasn't Agent Brandt, experienced IMF operative. Tonight, he was just a man who was suffering and mourning for a friend.

(0)(0)(0)

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there against the wall, cowering away from the world. A haze fell over him until he was no longer aware of the cold seeping into his bones. He was so withdrawn that he didn't hear the footsteps bearing down on him. A hand fell on his shoulder.

Agents, even depressed, hypothermic ones, are still agents.

Brandt didn't think. He leapt up, grabbed the hand on his shoulder and spun both of them around so his attacker was pinned against the brick wall. He was distantly aware of someone yelling. His right hand went to a throat while his left drew back to strike.

He looked up.

Smooth olive skin, black hair tangled from movement. Eyes red from crying set in a familiar face. Someone was still yelling, and he realized it was the person he had against the wall. What were they yelling? It sounded like a name…

"…–ant! Brandt! Brandt, it's me, it's Jane! Calm down!"

Jane. It was Jane. He'd yelled at her earlier, hadn't he…? Why–

Suddenly he was aware of his back against a wall again, and two people were kneeling in front of him. Jane, and a guy with strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes that looked at him worriedly. Benji.

God, he was cold…

"Brandt? Can you hear me, Brandt?" Jane asked, her face and voice fading in and out of focus. Another blank spot, and then he felt them slinging his arms over their shoulders and bundling him into a–backseat?

"What…where…" he muttered, almost too tired to care.

"Relax, Brandt," he heard Benji say from the driver's seat. "It's all right, mate, we've gotcha." He felt the car go into gear and peel away from the curb.

"Where are we going?"

Jane was next to him, holding him steady, wrapping what felt like a blanket around his shoulders. "Home, Brandt. It's okay. We're going home."

It was the last thing he heard before cold and exhaustion pulled him under and he surrendered to the dark.