Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Written because I loved Peter Graves work on 'Mission: Impossible' and when he died, I wanted to write something. Yes, it's taken me years to actually get round to it! So this is for Peter Graves and Greg Morris, RIP. Featuring characters from the 1960s and 1980s TV series.

SHOULD YOU DECIDE TO ACCEPT IT

The message went out on an unremarkable Friday. There were phone calls, placed to several individuals to inform them of a death in the family. The deceased's name was not given; no electronic communication was completely private. So instead, the individuals were told a code word, a nickname for a property that they were all familiar with, that would tell them everything they needed to know.

Sure enough, they all knew who they'd lost.

Cinnamon Carter put down the phone and gazed at the filmy drapes that were rippling away from the bedroom window. Her heart contracted painfully as she spoke.

"It's like Barney all over again."

She turned to her bedmate. Sorrow was clearly visible on Rollin Hand's face, in his still-startlingly striking eyes. His hair was as white as hers now, the lines on their faces caused by the same laughter and pain. He still shared her bed.

"We're taking the early shift?"

Cinnamon nodded, her mind flying dizzily with memories. Rollin reached for the phone that Cinnamon had discarded; he was never able to sit still for long, not when he could be doing something. Rollin was eternally a man of action.

"Willy'll join us."

Cinnamon smiled, her eyes full of unshed tears. She could still draw people into believing what she needed them to, as could Rollin. It was both a reflex and a finely-honed skill. Thanks to their work, they valued truth and trust more than almost anything else. There were very few people in the world that either of them could be truly honest with. There was one less now.

"I'll arrange a floral delivery."

Rollin reached for her with his free hand and their fingers intertwined.

Shannon Reed was buried in a bathtub full of orange-scented bubbles. Not long before, she had been singing along to the radio, practicing some difficult notes amongst the bathroom's forgiving acoustics. Now, the radio was silent and so was she.

It didn't seem possible.

She hadn't been there when the team had first formed, when its members had forged strong bonds during a highly-personal first mission. She hadn't been the IMF's premier choice but she hadn't let anyone down. Jim had always assured her that he was proud to work with her.

Now, the fact that she'd initially been drafted to replace a deceased agent seemed more raw than ever.

Taking a deep breath, Shannon ducked under the water's perfumed surface. She didn't open her eyes but they stung anyway. She reveled in the escape; here, all that mattered was survival. It couldn't last forever, hiding never did.

She broke for air and reached for a towel.

Max was running. He hadn't stopped since being thrown out of his local gym that morning – according to Morgan, he'd been freaking out some of the patrons. He'd hit the heavy bag hard enough to cut his knuckles. Morgan had firmly told him to take a break. It was only once he'd stopped that Max had registered the pain in his hands and the heavy sweat pouring down his face.

He'd showered, his face tipped upwards to accept the steaming-hot water, his hands stinging. Max hadn't cared about that; there were more important things going on. He'd stayed in the shower a long time.

Eventually Max had emerged to dry off and dress, before heading out to start a punishing run. That's what it was, a punishment. Even as a high-schooler, he'd been able to do something about his brother's apparent death. Ritchie might have been imprisoned in Vietnam but Max had been determined and, his parents had always maintained, he'd refused to accept his brother's death. It was a good thing he hadn't.

But there was a list of people that he hadn't been there for, people that he hadn't been able to save. Casey Randall, Barney Collier were the loudest names, the ones that hurt the most, twisting still-raw inside of him. The full list reeled through Max's head, running as he ran. Neither wanted to stop.

Lisa Casey clapped louder than anyone when the curtain came down at the end of the magician's performance, and she was the first one backstage afterward too. Security checked her name off and Casey's smile was wide as a door opened with a flourish and a yellow rose was presented just as smoothly.

"Of course you remembered," she laughed.

Paris raised an eyebrow and gestured towards his dressing table which was home to several brightly-colored bouquets. "I find myself overburdened."

"Well, thank you." Casey took a seat, watching as Paris began wiping off his theatrical greasepaint. "I wouldn't want to be a burden..."

Paris' wry smile reflected back at her. The doll-like features of Casey's youth had aged into lush prettiness, her wrinkles and pale blonde hair going unmodified. Her purple and white outfit was flattering and gave her room and movement to run if necessary. Retiring from IMF didn't mean forgetting every lesson, every possibility.

Paris' expression dropped from a smile into dawning horror as he listened to his cellphone messages. Casey's heartrate picked up; Paris was not given to undue panic, his work had always hinged on his ability to keep his emotions tightly in check. Now, he was displaying a deep sprawling grief. Dread swept through Casey, she knew him well enough to know when he was giving a performance.

"Paris?"

Her voice didn't waver; she was automatically staying calm when he wasn't. It was what IMF agents did, supporting teammates, ensuring that a mission stayed on track and that a team didn't fall apart. She reached out to him. The yellow rose lay fallen and forgotten by her purse.

"It just doesn't seem real, does it?"

Grant didn't reply, Nicholas didn't expect him to. He poured himself another whiskey. He'd called a specifically classified number before calling Grant, too often agents were reported dead when in fact they were deep in hiding, imprisoned, or playing dead for certain audiences. Nicholas had wanted to be sure. He'd mentioned this to Grant, Grant had quietly replied that he'd called in a few important favors, just so that he could be absolutely sure too. He was now.

It had to be killing Grant, to lose his father only a few short years ago and now this...Nicholas swallowed the whiskey with a grimace.

"Do you want a ride later?"

There was a quiet noise and then "Yeah. Thanks, man."

Nicholas smiled wanly; it was good to hear Grant's voice. Of course, who was to say that he was offering company purely for Grant's sake? Nicholas pushed aside a pile of prep-school marking. He couldn't be given compassionate leave for this death in the family; he'd have to thank the IMF for scheduling the get-together over a weekend.

He didn't say "I wonder if Max has slept since he heard the news," "Is everyone in the country right now?" or "Your father warned us."

That's the mission, boys, saving lives, all the time, but you can't always save the ones you keep close. It hits a little harder each year.

Nicholas didn't say "Your father was right," either. He didn't have to.

The house was silent but there were plenty of visitors that day. People were frequently in and out, it was never a wise idea for too many IMF agents, retired or otherwise, to all be in the same place at the same time. No matter how covert the organizing was, somebody would always find a way to take advantage.

A simple message played on the computer when prompted – the screen left unhidden as a clue. It informed visitors that Jim Phelps' funeral would be happen at the end of the week, in his childhood home of Norville County. Anything left by visitors on the lounge table would be sent to his family. It didn't give details of the funeral – the problem of multiple agents in one place once again rearing its ugly head.

Max was there early, checking that the house wasn't being watched, using a rudimentary but effective gadget created by Grant to check for bugs. Once he'd established that the house was clean, he messaged the rest of the team and began making coffee. He glanced around the room, remembering so many meetings past, breakfasts and dinners and walks down by the water. He remembered Casey Randall, wearing a red pantsuit, offering incisive commentary on whatever mission Jim had been detailing. He remembered talking to Jim quietly once about Vietnam.

Max tapped a fist to the coffee table, where Jim had often displayed files or particular devices. Max hesitated before sitting in the spot that Jim had occupied so many times before. It wasn't warm of course. Max's jaw twitched, he remembered flying a chopper over his much-missed homeland, Jim a pastel-colored speck below him, his knowing reassuring voice in Max's ear How does it feel to be home, Aussie?

Max answered out loud "Feels great, Jim."

That memory was the only thing that did. The kettle whistled loudly.

Shannon wore dove-grey, black seemed wrong for Jim, and a stylish hat. Max looked hagged but pleased to see her, kissing her cheek and pressing close for a moment more than usual. Shannon squeezed his arm and accepted a perfectly-made coffee – white with a single spoonful of sugar.

They sat in loaded companionable silence – what was there to say? Shannon's thoughts ticked over. She was bone-dry, but when she swallowed, all she could taste was chemicals and soap.

Nicholas and Grant arrived together. Something settled as the four of them sat there, nursing coffees, grouped like a support structure, as though with one less, they might fall down. For the longest time, nobody said anything. Who could break such a loaded silence?

Eventually, Grant did. "I think we all need something stronger."

It was a while past breakfast when Rollin and Cinnamon hit the beach. They didn't plan on entering the house; nestled amongst the nearby trees - they'd only visited Jim there once, maybe twice. It wasn't where they'd remember him.

They walked a while, Cinnamon wearing a hat with a wide brim and Rollin using a cane, occasionally essential for his sometimes-stiffening left leg. Cinnamon tucked her hand through the loop of his arm and thought of Jim, holding together the slippery strands of so many missions, doing his best to make sure that they succeeded whilst also trying to keep the team safe without endangering their end goal. But who had kept him safe? Who had he gone home to at night?

"We never asked," she murmured.

"Mmm?"

"We never asked, about the quiet hours."

Had Jim needed a nudge, a helping hand, someone to talk to? He'd always been a master-planner, perfect at using people's strengths and weaknesses for the greater good. Like so many agents, his life had been consumed by his work. Not many IMF agents managed to maintain long-term relationships, let alone get married.

Jim had never been short of attention; his charm was innate, maturing as he did. Cinnamon could remember several occasions when she'd called on him – he was an excellent chess buddy - only to find that he already had company. Maybe he'd tried relationships and had realized that when it came down to it, he'd always choose the mission.

"Look."

Rollin raised a hand and waved – Willy had parked close to the beach and was leaning against his car's hood. He was still build like a barn, and his smile was still just as gentle. He was still regularly breaking weight-lifting records. His voice had been heavy with sadness on the phone. He'd loved going fishing with Jim; they'd caught a lot of red snapper together. Cinnamon and Rollin had often received a boxful, the fish layered between mounds of crushed ice.

They could get brunch. Cinnamon was in the mood for seafood, perhaps cracked crabs, it brought back memories of Grenada - Barney refusing to let Rollin steal any baby red potatoes from his bowl and Jim smiling around dripping corn on the cob. Whatever questions would come to task her, Cinnamon could be sure that, for at least some time, Jim had certainly been happy.

When the house was empty, Paris, not wearing his magician's garb or a hint of greasepaint, knocked on the door. It felt wrong to walk in unannounced, regardless of the fact that he had a key. Casey had bought several yellow roses and left them in a narrow box, the stems wrapped in chiffon.

Doug was serving overseas, Doctors Without Borders had seemed like a good break from IMF work and yet also meant that he was present in certain countries should a medical expert be needed during missions. When he got the message about Jim, he was too far from any viable transport home to make it back in any kind of respectful time. He had a letter sent to Jim's funeral, stating condolences and that my life would have been a lot less full without Jim Phelps. He sent a separate message to Willy, offering to meet up for a fishing trip the next time they were both free.

Dana didn't hear about Jim until several weeks later. A mission that had required her presence had gone terribly wrong and had ended with her eyesight almost becoming irreparably damaged. She dropped exhausted onto her couch, tears streaming down her face, bags forgotten at her feet. It was some time before she began calling former teammates, leaving messages and exchanging disbelief. She connected with Mimi and made a date to meet up the next day.

Once Max had raided the liquor cabinet in order to strengthen everybody's coffee, Grant raised his mug. No toast was given, what words could possibly sum up Jim Phelps and what he'd meant to them all? Everybody's face was solemn as four mugs clinked together. A short moment later, a delivery man knocked on the door and handed over a crystal vase filled with bellflowers for loss and gratitude, cypress for mourning, and sweet briars for a wound still to heal.

Grant checked the vase for devices and read the attached card. "Good luck, Jim. From your friends at The Hartford Repertory and The Globe Repertory Companies."

Grant's smile creased; after his Dad's death his family had received a similar vase of flowers and card. Cinnamon Carter had visited, wearing jewelry almost the exact same shade as the mermaid's tears that had filled the bottom of the vase that'd so recently been delivered. Grant had kept a few of those tears – plastic and glass worn smooth and precious by powerful tides. They lived in a drawer with his Dad's old lighter and handkerchiefs.

Now, his throat constricted but his movements determined, Grant carefully handled the newly-delivered flowers, yep there were mermaid's tears at the bottom of this vase too. He began fishing out a small handful, for himself and his teammates. The texture of the pieces of glass made his hands tremble. He hoped that Jim's family would keep a few stones for themselves too.

On the day of the funeral, Jim's family received lots of flowers and many letters. Among them was a short note postmarked from New York. It read:

Jim,

thank you,

Dan

-the end