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It’s early in the afternoon, late in fall, and the air of Munich is clean and crisp. The wrought iron chair squeals against the cobblestones as Jane sits down across from Ilsa.
"Cards on the table," she says. “Do you know who I am?”
“Generally?” Ilsa asks, lifting her espresso cup to her lips. “Or specifically?” She takes a sip.
Jane crosses her arms.
“Generally, you’ve been tailing me for the past two days. Specifically, Agent Jane Carter with IMF.”
Jane nods. “Ethan sent me to find you. He wanted to make sure that you were settling in alright. From what I can tell, you’re doing alright. Want me to tell him anything else?”
She thinks it over for a few moments. Takes another sip of her espresso. “No, that sounds about right.”
Ever so slightly, Jane relaxes in her seat. She sighs out, and casts an idle glance around. They're outside a side-street cafe, quiet and mostly composed of locals.
"Do you want to order something?" Ilsa asks. There's a smirk in her eyes though her face stays neutral. "My treat."
Jane snorts. "No thanks," she says, trying to keep the note of disdain from her voice. Underneath the table, she bounces her knee up and down. "You want me to tell him that his presumptive guardianship is unnecessary?"
It's Ilsa's turn to snort. "In whatever way you see fit." She turns her espresso cup a quarter-turn counterclockwise. "I made my decisions. I stand by them. I stand by what I do now. He does not need worry about his impact on my life."
An jarring and irritating crash, but no extinction-level event.
Few women have been so lucky.
Jane gives her a dry smile, then pushes herself to standing. The chair once more squeals behind her. She nods in parting, and she leaves.
*
The Museo del Prado is comfortably warm against the slight chill of November's late afternoons.
Jane doesn't particularly care for the supposed cultured events like these. If absolutely necessary, she can wear the revealing dress and recite the cultural knowledge she memorized while sparring with Ethan, but this is far more Brandt's comfort zone.
Jane's comfort zone includes a lot more punching, a lot less polite smiling. And pants. While this is nothing like the silk taffeta monstrosity she had worn in Dubai, it's still flowy and feminine and while she’s been spared revealing nearly all her cleavage, she still bares more thigh than seems necessary.
Her cover is the blandest that Benji could come up with, with approval from Brandt. Brandt, who is juggling two assignments in Hungary, to his great displeasure. Despite her fondness of Madrid, Jane’s not much happier. She enters the conversations of others when it seems necessary, but she makes her way through the show, enjoying the paintings as best as she can. Brandt could talk about just one painting for half an hour, if he were given an audience – Ethan the most likely to volunteer, Benji the most likely to not end up in jail by the end of the half hour – and Jane can appreciate the beauty. The time. The effort.
She just prefers punching.
There's motion in the corner of her vision, something familiar, and Jane shifts her weight, glancing that much more to the side.
Gone is the simple blouse and simpler trousers from Munich. Ilsa is wearing a conservative navy dress. Just to the knee, made of a matte material, she’s still simple, elegant, beautiful.
As she comes to stand next to Jane, Ilsa gives her a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cards on the table,” she murmurs.
Jane glances around, though the security concerns are low. “The museum’s director is being blackmailed by a very powerful man. There are… certain things kept secret in this museum that would benefit from staying secret. IMF here is to scope the situation, and see if our intervention is needed.”
“It won’t be.” It’s curt.
Jane raises an eyebrow.
“This case is mine,” Ilsa says, voice low.
Jane gives a slight curtsey in a quiet concession.
Ilsa quirks the corner of her lip up, but her eyes give a genuine smile.
*
Jane’s New Year involves a non-negotiable vacation, and a postcard in her Bangor, Maine apartment. It’s a postcard of one of the paintings from the Prado, with a postmark from Montevideo.
*
They’re on a mission in Montevideo that is quickly going more and more south.
The ballroom for the gala is filled with more hostiles than she and Brandt can manage – Benji is recovering from a serious knee sprain, and is in a hotel room halfway across the city. Ethan’s in jail. Brandt is on the edge of getting made by their mark, and Jane cannot save bother her and Brandt when she’s in Manolo Blahnik heels.
They’re exchanging passing glances while Benji is panicking and trying to revise their strategy when Ilsa strides into the room.
Jane… Jane stares.
Ilsa’s gown is a deep burgundy. Long sleeved and with a conservative neckline belied by the wide expanse of the open back and thigh-high slits up either side of the dress. Her stiletto heels are high and sharp. There’s something effortless in the way she owns and wields her femininity.
Their mark swans across the ballroom to meet her. He calls her by one of the many aliases she has on file, and she is tall and regal as she accepts a kiss on each cheek. From there, she unerringly makes her way to Brandt.
Benji is narrating the shifting dynamics for Jane, but there’s a note of relief in his voice that disappeared over an hour ago.
Jane turns away, tilting her head down. “What now?”
Three hours, an unending maze of alleyways, and a risky extraction later, she is heading to one of the rendezvous points.
Ilsa is in step beside her.
There’s something smug about her.
There’s something that rankles Jane. Two blocks pass in silence before she stops and turn on her heel. “Why did you go to Brandt?”
Ilsa matches the stop and turn, and she meets Jane’s glare. "Because Brandt would see through what was started."
Jane opens her mouth, but she can't even manage to sputter for a long few seconds. She finds her voice, and demands, "And I don't?"
Ilsa takes a step in. Stares down at Jane, her gaze dropping down to trace the curve of Jane's face, then looks back up. "You haven't yet."
Jane feels herself going into a defensive position – not the instinctive defense she takes when a fight is imminent. But a different instinctive, a different defense… the slight draw back, the faint hunch of shoulders that made itself known when Trevor first flashed a toothy smile at her.
It's been a few years.
(She still refuses to go to Hungary.)
There is no toothy smile from Ilsa, but a definite sparkle in her eye. A challenging edge to it.
Jane meets challenges.
But she does it on her own terms.
*
Ilsa’s apartment in Munich is a high-ceiling loft in central Schwanthalerhöhe.
Jane lets herself in.
And very quickly finds the liquor cabinet.
It is impressive, like so many things with Ilsa are.
Jane pours herself a bourbon and she knocks it down quickly. She pours herself a second bourbon and takes it to one of the sleek leather armchairs of the living room, nursing it slowly.
Hours – and another few bourbons – later, when Ilsa arrives home, she doesn’t seem surprised to see Jane. "I have taken up photography," she says. "It allows me to look around me as many times as I need without seeming jumpy, while allowing me to indulge in beauty around me."
"You were MI6. You found my apartment in Bangor, which is my most secure residence. You know my file." The accusations that Ilsa knows about Trevor ring loud in the silence.
“I know your file.”
The silence turns deafening.
Ilsa goes to her liquor cabinet, and returns with a martini.
“Really?” Jane asks. It’s not the question she wants to ask, should be asking, but it’s been a few glasses of bourbon.
Ilsa holds her gaze while taking a slow sip of the clear drink.
Jane makes a face. Her glass is empty, and she knows better than to refill it. But that’s about all she knows right now. She doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t know what she wants or wants to do.
Ilsa remains silent.
She’s only met this woman a handful of times. Never seeing her again would not be a great tragedy, like she suffered in Budapest. Ilsa is just… an unstoppable force and immovable object in one, wearing and weathering her caldera. She has not been so bold as to declare her intentions, but she has made them known all the same. She’s not yet pressured Jane to make a choice, is allowing Jane time to assess the challenge.
“Take any good photos?” she asks. And winces. It sounds weak even to her.
But Ilsa downs the rest of her drink, and trades her martini glass for her Nikon. “Maybe one or two,” she says, as he pulls an ottoman over beside Jane.
“Is three out of the realm of possibility?”
“Nothing’s out of the realm of possibility.”
Ilsa’s voice is quiet and melodic as she shows Jane the photos she took on her walk. They’re simple scenery shots, trees and sky and stubborn patches of snow. Aside from her voice pinpointing the exact geographic location of each shot, the room is quiet and charged with anticipation.
The locations draw nearer and nearer to Ilsa’s apartment, the realm of possibility in flux until Ilsa draws back, turning off her camera.
Jane’s pulse picks up. “What are you doing in February?”
Ilsa’s gaze goes sharp, reverts to an agent’s piercing and analytical stare, but softens after a few long moments. “I have nothing yet scheduled.”
It’s a neutral statement, but Jane reads the challenge – Ilsa will no longer lead. If Jane wants, Jane needs to make it known. She smirks at Ilsa. “French Quarter?”
*
The city is gold and green and purple and glittering and gleaming.
Jane curls a finger around one strand of Ilsa’s green bead necklaces and pulls her in for a kiss.