This Is A Low (Final Chapter)
Title: This Is A Low (Part VII)
Pairings: Ocelot/Big Boss (some Ocelot/Eva and Big Boss/Eva)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4758
Warnings: Some het in earlier chapters.
Summary: It is 1971, and Big Boss has tracked Eva to Hanoi. Enter Ocelot, who is charged with the responsibility of finding her, breaking her out, and bringing her to Big Boss.
Notes: Part six of a WIP. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. This is the final chapter. My heartfelt thanks to everyone who has stuck with this. You are wonderful.
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI
Any apprehension Adamska might have harboured over Eva's state of dress quickly dissipated as they approached the rendezvous. She was fully dressed, and whipped the Kalashnikov around to face them as they came through the trees, aiming square between Adamska's eyes. He put his hands up in a gesture of mock-surrender.
Eva's eyes flitted from Adamska, to John and back again, and for a moment her expression was so ambiguous that Adamska was not sure whether she was pleased to see them or not. She lowered the gun slowly. A small, uncertain smile spread from the corners of her lips, lighting up her eyes.
This is it, Adamska thought wearily, and stopped walking. He would observe the scene from a safe distance. This is where you fly into his arms and declare your love. This is your chance. For christ's sake, don't waste it.
She didn't do that. He could have killed her for it.
They stopped short of one another, each observing the other with a distant interest, as if staring at an artefact from a past life. John inclined his head in a polite nod. Adamska wanted to laugh at the stilted formality of the gesture, so inappropriate within the context.
"It's been a while," Eva said. There was no mistaking the cool undercurrent of her tone.
'I loved him' she had told him, and for the first time the actual meaning of the phrase registered in Adamska's mind. 'Loved'. Past tense, as in something once felt, an old photograph left to blanch in the sun. A one night stand many years ago, the precursor to Eva's betrayal. Hardly the greatest catalyst for an enduring love affair. Still, a one night stand was more than Adamska had ever had, and wasn't he still waiting for the day that John would love him even a fraction as much as he loved John?
No. It couldn't be entirely past tense. Not with John. Maddeningly casual in his approach, he seemed to treat his admirers as if their interest in him could only be short lived. As if they would forget about him soon enough and move on to the next one. It was the nature of the career mercenary, this unconscious refusal to love and be loved, because who could say when war, or betrayal, or some other force might snatch that person from you? It was a sensible approach, and Adamska had previously been a devotee.
(Major Ocelot, preternaturally beautiful, possessed of a self-assurance befitting a man of his youth and pedigree, a man who might have been in demand had it not been for the gravity of his rank. He would take his pick of the men and they would leave the next morning, astonished at the skill and ferocity with which he fucked. Never the same man more than twice, and they were always gone by morning.)
"You came down via the ridge, right?" John asked. "The route on the map?"
"Yes," Adamska nodded. "It was guarded by helicopter. It was sheer luck we made it down at all."
"Well, that's where we're catching our ride out." John shielded his eye from the sun with one dirt-streaked hand, peering up into the treetops. "Think you can work us up a little more luck?"
Adamska was aware of Eva's eyes on him. Scanning his face, registering every minute movement, every twitch of his jaw and flicker of his eyelids. He wanted to swat her away like a mosquito.
"I'll see what I can do," he said, and he thought he saw Eva purse her lips in disappointment.
"Okay," John said. "We can't waste any time. I've already radioed in the helicopter. We have maybe two hours. Let's go."
Eva blinked slowly. "Right now?"
"Got something better to do?" Adamska asked. He had been soft on her, letting her rest when she needed to, timing their journey based on her ability, and not his own. John's brisk pace was always going to be a shock to her system.
As they headed into the jungle, Adamska wondered if he would regret treating Eva with kid gloves.
***
Where Eva had previously been welcome company, suddenly she seemed to be a constant presence, a ghost over Adamska's shoulder. It wasn't fair of him and he knew it; it was hardly her fault that he could not stop pining for things that were never going to happen.
After an hour of walking, the sky burst open and the rain that had threatened for days finally began to fall. Slowly at first, a treacle-thick drizzle dripping from the leaves. As they progressed, the rain doubled, tripled, quadrupled in intensity until they could no longer hear themselves speak over the thunderous sound of water beating against the treetops.
It was a relief. The droplets stung Adamska's sunburnt skin, hitting him like a handful of coins. It soaked his clothes and streamed down his face, washing away several days' worth of sweat and dirt. It sliced through the cloying, thick air like a knife through butter.
"Couldn't it have waited until we were out of here?" Eva yelled, her voice tinny over the roar of the water.
I've waited days for rain, Adamska thought. Impulsively, he leapt into the air, his hands finding slippery purchase on a low branch. He threw his entire weight behind it, dragging it down, the damp bark splitting under the pressure.
By the time Eva realised what he was doing, it was too late.
A great stream of water gushed from the displaced tree and engulfed her, crashing to the ground. She let out an inappropriately high-pitched yelp. Still hanging from the tree, monkey-like, Adamska grinned widely at her. It was perhaps the first time he had really smiled during this whole affair, and Eva's indignant reaction, coupled with her ragged, half-drowned appearance only served to fuel his amusement. It was childish, and spiteful, and a hundred other things Adamska should not have been delighting in.
He had expected some sort of admonishment from John, but he merely looked at him with curiosity. Perhaps a little taken aback by this impulsive act of mischief; Adamska was the gift that kept giving, the enigma that never stopped surprising. He liked that. He liked staying just out of John's reach, throwing curve balls every time the other man thought he'd got the cocky Russian kid all figured out.
Only one thing remained constant, and that Adamska had no control over; the ease with which John could coax his allegiance. All it took to secure was a kiss, and increasingly even less than that. The crooked smile John seemed to reserve for Adamska alone. Christ, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Adamska was the spy. Mind games were his reserve. And now look, a pitiful man who could be disarmed by the right kind of smile. Who could be sent to some dusty hellhole to track down a person he had very little interest in on the promise of some nebulous reward.
The worst thing was knowing that John did none of this out of malice. Hell, he probably wasn't even aware of the power he had. He'd always been oblivious to his own charms.
In the rain, the forest seemed to take on a different quality. The sunlight that had illuminated the dark space beneath the treetops had disappeared. All around them were great masses of dull greens and browns, and empty spaces coloured grey by rain. The droplets beat a fast rhythm on the ground, driving them onwards, and as the ground rose the trees began to separate, showing a patchwork of grey overhead. Good sneaking weather, but that advantage could go both ways, and Adamska found himself growing increasingly paranoid, tracking minute movements with his eyes,
John walked a little way ahead of them, scouting out the near distance.
Despite the rain, and the soft ground which made progress slow and laborious, Eva had not complained. She looked pitiful; her clothes clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her face. She looked small, and a little afraid. That was understandable. With such poor visibility, there could be enemies lurking unseen just beyond the wall of water. Despite the relief from the heat, it was becoming obvious that nobody felt particularly good about this sudden change.
Somewhere in the distance, a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
"With any luck, they'll have relaxed the patrols. You know, because of the weather." Even as Adamska spoke, he knew he was clutching at straws. The closer they drew to the ridge, the more apprehensive they grew. It was all very well hoping for an easy exit, but what was hope if not the flimsiest of emotions? A fervent wish based on how things ought to be, as if the universe gave a fragment of a fuck about your opinion.
"With any luck," Eva agreed uncertainly.
A momentary gladness flitted across Adamska's mind. They both knew it was bullshit and yet he sensed her agreement was designed, at least in part, to reassure him. To foster the thought that maybe he was right.
She cared about him, at least a little. Who'd have thought it?
****
"Stop."
The command came from nowhere. John ducked into a crouch and Adamska followed suit, craning his neck in the direction John had been heading. Nothing but grey, and a fine mist of rain which seemed to obscure everything beyond. Still, if John had seen something...
"What's there?" Adamska said in a low voice. Behind him, he saw Eva lower herself slowly, creeping forward until she was roughly between them. Her jeans and shoes were caked in thick mud and clung wetly to her legs.
"I saw shadows. Movement." Losing an eye had not diminished John's abilities. Adamska had long ceased to feel guilty about it; it had hardly been his intention. He had no control over luck, or mindless acts of altruism.
Of course, if John had not acted the heroic moron, that bullet would almost certainly have killed Eva.
The pang of guilt that came on the heels of the thought was still slight enough for Adamska to dismiss.
He squinted into the distance. Still nothing, and complete silence to boot; perhaps John had seen a bird, or an animal, the silhouette of something fast and smart and good at staying hidden. Or perhaps the creeping paranoia that had so afflicted him and Eva had finally started to nip at John's heels.
He was about to fire some pithy remark at the other man when he finally saw it.
A dark blot in the foreground, moving nimbly and without sound. Followed by another, a less graceful specimen whose motions came accompanied by the splash of mud and the crunch of twigs.
"Son of a bitch," Adamska breathed.
"There was a third," John muttered. "I saw three of them. Where's the other one?"
The blots were moving in their direction, slowly taking form as they came closer. Limbs came into focus, and hands and guns, and Adamska was contemplating making a break for it (his revolver tucked into his palm, ready at the slightest provocation) when there was a sudden sound from behind them, and he knew that it was too late.
The third man stared dumbly down at them, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing.
In the brief window of time afforded by his moronic behaviour, Adamska had already unfurled from his position, striking out like a coiled snake. He rammed the butt of his gun into the man's cheek; the satisfying crunch of shattered bone reverberated through his arm. He fell to the ground in an undignified heap, limbs splayed, and Adamska placed a boot square in the centre of the man's chest.
"Don't even think about moving," Adamska said.
Behind him, there came a sudden burst of rifle fire, a clattering racket as bullets embedded themselves in the foliage. John and Eva were still low, relying on the darkness to keep them hidden until the enemy drew closer.
Adamska was wide open, a lone figure in the dim light.
The man squirmed beneath him. His nose gushed blood, so dark it might have been black.
"The first rule of combat: always be prepared." Adamska ground his heel into the man's sternum and was rewarded with a choked whimper. He could sense Eva's eyes on him, and knew she would be discomfited at the way he revelled in the man's pain. "You let me surprise you. That was a stupid mistake."
The man babbled something in a language Adamska did not understand, eyes wide and glassy and afraid. He couldn't have been much older than twenty. It was no excuse.
Another burst of rifle fire. Adamska felt a rush of air as bullets flew past, thudded into the forest floor. Christ, they were bad shots.
"Any time you feel like it, John," Adamska muttered.
He needn't have spoke. John chose that same moment to break cover. Adamska saw, over his shoulder, the blur of movement as he and Eva leapt from their hiding place, weapons raised, and was entranced for a half-second at the fluidity of motion, the strange grace with which John moved.
There followed a long moment in which sound and movement and light and dark all blended into one, dizzying and indistinct and punctuated by the sort of sharp, breathless agony that could only be a bullet slicing through flesh.
Adamska realised then that he'd broken the first rule.
Through the haze, he thought he saw the man beneath him smirk. His hand travelled to his side in a long, sweeping motion that seemed to take hours. His fingers came away bloody, and he lifted them to his face, staring uncomprehendingly at them.
He heard the snap of a pistol being reloaded, and reacted in the way that had become second nature. The handle of the revolver slipped beneath his fingers and as he lined up the shot, he realised he was no longer sure where the man ended and the ground began.
The sudden cessation of movement from beneath his foot was all the confirmation he needed.
"Adamska!" someone shouted, and he stumbled backwards, struggling to stay upright. The grey cloud at the edge of his vision seemed to be closing in, and although Eva's face was no more than a metre from his, it seemed horribly distorted, as if seen through broken glass. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders, shook him so that his brain seemed to rattle in his skull, and the one coherent thought that slipped into his mind was that he should be trying harder to stem the blood loss.
His hands felt their way to the bullet wound, jammed themselves against the blood-sticky flesh. Close range. The bastard had caught him at close range and who could tell how much internal damage he'd caused? Blood seemed to spill from between Adamska's fingers. He lowered himself into a crouch, resting his head on his knees, clinging tenaciously to the last threads of consciousness. What a stupid thing to do. A fucking rookie mistake, taking his eyes off the captive - the armed captive - and why? Because he'd been staring at John's ass. A split second loss of concentration and here he was, plugging the hole in his side with his fingers.
Eva's hands, hot even through the rain-soaked fabric of his uniform, shaking him, telling him to get up.
I deserve this, he thought.
His eyes had slipped closed before his face made contact with the ground.
*
No.
This is not how it's supposed to end.
Get up, Adamska.
That voice, strangely familiar, floating through the darkness like a wisp of cigar smoke.
Goddamit, Adamska. Get up.
His own voice, heard through a filter of age, and sharp-edged vodka, and bitterness.
What are you, boy, a fucking weakling? Get the hell up. Don't think you can rest yet.
Okay, Adamska thought numbly.
And he pushed.
*
"Adamska!"
It seemed to him, even through the grey, that the scene was almost exactly as he remembered it. His face, pressed against the damp ground, still prickly with sunburn. Eva's panicked presence at his side. The bullet wound, burning just beneath his ribs. He could only have been unconscious for a minute.
"Mnf," he said.
He pressed his palms flat against the ground, pushing himself up, and felt a fresh gout of blood seep into his clothes. With every movement his head swam, the world pitching violently backwards, sideways, spinning in long, drawn-out circles.
Christ, it was just a bullet. He'd been through worse.
Adamska slowly uncurled into a standing position. For once, Eva's hands on his back were welcome, holding him steady even as his limbs threatened to buckle completely. "Where's John?" he asked. His voice was thick in his mouth; his lips struggled to form the words.
"He went ahead," she said. "To see if there are any more of them."
"Oh." He'd found himself stuck at an angle, his torso inclined slightly forward. His left hand pressed against the wound, and he wondered offhandedly whether the uniform was ruined beyond repair.
"He'll be fine," Eva said.
"I know," Adamska replied. He stepped away from her, freeing himself from her touch. Of course John would be okay. He didn't make stupid mistakes. Didn't take his eye off the enemy, even for a second. In the near distance, the two other men lay on the ground, staring up at the sky with unblinking eyes. Their weapons were missing. Adamska noticed the Simonov at Eva's side, and the flash of something between the trees that indicated John's return, rifle in hand.
"The cliff is just past this patch of forest," John said, somewhat breathless from the uphill trek. "Adamska. Do you think you can go that far?"
"Stupid question," Adamska said. He had intended for it to sound offhand and casual, but he knew from John's expression that it hadn't sounded that way at all. "Yes. Let's move."
John's hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He lacked the strength to push past, and hissed through his teeth in frustration; a single goddamn bullet, and here he was, kitten-weak and helpless. "What?" he snapped, drawing himself sharply up to his full height. The resulting wave of nausea almost sent him back down to the ground, but he held firm.
"Where did you get hit?" Neutral tone; John's face betrayed no pity, no disgust. John gently prised Adamska's hand away from the wound, studying the area, judging its proximity to major organs. His warm fingers wrapped around Adamska's cold palm, unperturbed by the blood.
"Just a graze," he said, and John smirked a little at that.
"Alright," John said, freeing Adamska's hand from his grip. "We should assume heavy enemy presence. Stay alert."
They moved slowly, for stealth's sake as well as Adamska's. The ground veered sharply uphill as they progressed and the effort made Adamska's head ache. He was still bleeding. How much blood could a man lose before he had to stop? He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.
*
As they neared the top of the cliff, moving along the thin path in small, shuffling steps, it quickly became apparent that the helicopter was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit," Adamska said.
John grunted in response, heading to the cliff edge. He scanned the horizon. The sky was heavy with clouds, a uniform grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Adamska eased himself to the ground. An unbearable tiredness had crept up on him. He heard John speaking into his radio, and the loud buzz that indicated a response. It seemed to take hours, although it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
"Stay awake," Eva said, crouching beside him.
That surprised him. He hadn't realised she was close by.
"I know," he said, a little petulantly. Then, as an afterthought, "I'm fine. Really."
She gave him a knowing look. "We're both very impressed with how tough you are, kotyonok. But even you can't run on empty."
"Not empty yet," Adamska muttered.
Eva squeezed his shoulder and got back to her feet, heading over to where John stood. Adamska watched them exchange words, acutely aware of their body language; formal, unfamiliar, uncertain. The chill in the air between them was obvious, and yet it seemed a comfortable kind of chill, one without anger or malice.
It was cold now, up here, where the wind blew freely and the rain fell without obstruction. Adamska had been shot enough times to know what hypovolemic shock felt like; bullet wounds had an unpleasant habit of bleeding profusely, and trekking uphill did not usually help matters. The pain had become so much white noise, a constant dull throb that registered somewhere in the depths of Adamska’s mind. But Eva was right; he could not go on like this for much longer.
Admitting that to himself hurt worse than any bullet wound ever had,
A low clicking sound drifted towards them from above the trees.
“Think you can climb?” John asked.
“I guess I’ll have to,” Adamska replied. The wind doubled in intensity, throwing leaves into the air; they spiralled down, past the cliff edge and into the forest below. The telltale chatter of helicopter blades sounded from over his shoulder, growing steadily louder.
And there was something else. Something quieter, higher-pitched, coming from ground level.
It had previously occurred to Adamska that their escape had seemed far too easy. The complete absence of enemy presence since the last incident seemed....abnormal, somehow. It had seemed a safe bet that they would encounter more along the way.
Adamska sat on the grass, momentarily unable to move, and watched with dull surprise as the men came into focus, winding their way through the trees, armed to the teeth and clearly prepared to catch their targets off-guard.
He heard Eva swear loudly behind him.
"Adamska," John said. "You need to get up."
He bit back the sarcastic response he'd formulated and struggled to kneel. In the corner of his eye he saw the silhouettes approaching, the crisp green of their uniforms now visible in the bright daylight. As he watched, panting with effort, the helicopter swept over the trees. The sound of it was deafening, and the men bursting through the forest seemed taken aback, stopping momentarily in their tracks as the trees whipped back and forth.
"Adamska, now."
He realised then that he had forgotten how to move.
They hadn't started firing yet, but it wouldn't be long. He willed his arms to move, his legs, his fingers and toes.
The harness hung limp in the air, looking for all the world like an insurmountable challenge.
Adamska had managed to shuffle into a crouch when he felt someone grab him from behind, wrenching him into a standing position. A flare of unbearable pain radiated out from the wound and he retched, feeling bile rise up into his throat, burning inside his chest.
"Get to safety," he heard John say.
"Can't," he muttered. "You...you and Eva..."
"Adamska, you're hurt. I've got to get you out of here."
An irrational surge of fury coloured Adamska's cheeks red. "I don't need rescuing," he said, even as John wound the harness tightly around him. "Eva should go. There's too many of them..."
John's mouth, hard against his, was all the persuasion he needed.
"Get in the goddamn harness," John said, and there was no anger in his voice, just irritation at his stubbornness. His face was so close Adamska could taste the sweat on his skin. The straps hurt, but he could hardly complain about it. As the winch began to turn, he felt his feet pull sharply off the ground and he was in the air, dangling like an idiot while Eva and John held off the enemy with borrowed weapons. He watched stupidly from his vantage point, his bloody hands clinging onto the rope as if for dear life.
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion, a movie played out below him. John and Eva, moving ever closer to the cliff edge as the enemy advanced, the chatter of bullets lost beneath the helicopter’s mechanical whirr. The burst of bright blood, exploding like a scarlet firework as bullet impacted against enemy bone. Adamska had never thought of battle as beautiful and indeed, the haphazard choreography of the firefight below was far from graceful. But - and perhaps it was the blood loss - there seemed something almost romantic about it all, the two heroes outnumbered and yet unflustered, aim unhindered, the very epitome of professionalism.
The man who pulled him into the helicopter seemed familiar, although Adamska could not place him. He wriggled free of the harness, let it drop to the ground and watched as Eva clambered in, not bothering to fasten it around her.
“We’re under fire!” someone yelled from the cockpit. “Johnny, speed it up!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” the man yelled, and pulled Eva up. Again, the harness was lowered, and John began his ascent, without the luxury of cover. A few of the men had retreated into the forest, but they were still greatly outnumbered, and those that remained had taken to firing rather indiscriminately into the air, aiming for whatever part of the helicopter they could hit.
Adamska saw the man aim between John’s eyes before he’d even steadied the rifle.
The pain seemed to have sharpened his senses, and the revolver seemed lighter than normal, the barrel cooler. Though the buzz in his head was insistent, he lined up the shot and steadied his arm with his free hand.
The man’s finger pressed down on the trigger.
The last thought that ran through Adamska’s mind before the recoil turned the world black was a half-formed prayer to nobody in particular - please, don’t miss.
EPILOGUE
Adamska had never thought he’d be quite so grateful to be on American soil, but there was a first time for everything.
The bandage wrapped around his torso felt too tight, the American sun too weak, and as they exited the plane it seemed to him that the thick Asian air had weighed down on him for so long that he might remain stoop-shouldered forever.
It was Zero who welcomed them back, embracing them as if they were heroes. He smiled with too many teeth; the upward crease of his mouth deepened the furrowed scar that ran the length of his face, made his features hard and sharp and predatory. Adamska accepted the handshake with an amiable smile, watching with irritation as his hands slipped into John's with comfortable familiarity.
“You must be Eva,” Zero said. A flash of teeth; Eva smiled, charmed by his geniality. “You gave us quite the run-around, I must say.”
“I was well-trained,” Eva replied.
“I can see that. Come, we have much to discuss.” Zero guided her, one hand on her elbow, and as they headed off, chatting like old friends, Adamska was suddenly aware of John's gaze burning the back of his neck.
“I owe you, Adamska,” he said.
“You owe me nothing,” Adamska replied. It had been a lucky shot. Christ, he hadn't even seen it; he'd been too busy being unconscious.
John's hands travelled up his spine, rested on his shoulder blades, and it took all of his will not to turn around, to give in to the embrace. Even the sharp friction of John's cheek in the crook of his neck, the brush of John's lips against his throat could not make him give in. He was nobody's pet.
“I don't think you understand,” John said, and his voice was a whisper against Adamska's skin.
“I know what I am to you.” Deadpan. He felt John drawn back slightly, the warmth of him receding.
“And what's that?”
Adamska did not respond. He jerked sharply out of John's grasp.
Behind him, he heard John chuckle.
“What?” he said, turning sharply on his heels; his features contorted into a scowl.
“You're a proud creature, Adamska.” This time, when John's hands ran the length of his torso he did not flinch, and when John's fingers brushed the bandaged area just below his ribs, so gently as to almost be loving, he found himself staring defiantly up into the other man's face and was surprised at what he saw there. That John could still catch him off-guard, even after all this time, was truly a wonder.
“Let me pay you back,” John said.
For once, Adamska did not have a smart retort.
Pairings: Ocelot/Big Boss (some Ocelot/Eva and Big Boss/Eva)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4758
Warnings: Some het in earlier chapters.
Summary: It is 1971, and Big Boss has tracked Eva to Hanoi. Enter Ocelot, who is charged with the responsibility of finding her, breaking her out, and bringing her to Big Boss.
Notes: Part six of a WIP. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. This is the final chapter. My heartfelt thanks to everyone who has stuck with this. You are wonderful.
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI
Any apprehension Adamska might have harboured over Eva's state of dress quickly dissipated as they approached the rendezvous. She was fully dressed, and whipped the Kalashnikov around to face them as they came through the trees, aiming square between Adamska's eyes. He put his hands up in a gesture of mock-surrender.
Eva's eyes flitted from Adamska, to John and back again, and for a moment her expression was so ambiguous that Adamska was not sure whether she was pleased to see them or not. She lowered the gun slowly. A small, uncertain smile spread from the corners of her lips, lighting up her eyes.
This is it, Adamska thought wearily, and stopped walking. He would observe the scene from a safe distance. This is where you fly into his arms and declare your love. This is your chance. For christ's sake, don't waste it.
She didn't do that. He could have killed her for it.
They stopped short of one another, each observing the other with a distant interest, as if staring at an artefact from a past life. John inclined his head in a polite nod. Adamska wanted to laugh at the stilted formality of the gesture, so inappropriate within the context.
"It's been a while," Eva said. There was no mistaking the cool undercurrent of her tone.
'I loved him' she had told him, and for the first time the actual meaning of the phrase registered in Adamska's mind. 'Loved'. Past tense, as in something once felt, an old photograph left to blanch in the sun. A one night stand many years ago, the precursor to Eva's betrayal. Hardly the greatest catalyst for an enduring love affair. Still, a one night stand was more than Adamska had ever had, and wasn't he still waiting for the day that John would love him even a fraction as much as he loved John?
No. It couldn't be entirely past tense. Not with John. Maddeningly casual in his approach, he seemed to treat his admirers as if their interest in him could only be short lived. As if they would forget about him soon enough and move on to the next one. It was the nature of the career mercenary, this unconscious refusal to love and be loved, because who could say when war, or betrayal, or some other force might snatch that person from you? It was a sensible approach, and Adamska had previously been a devotee.
(Major Ocelot, preternaturally beautiful, possessed of a self-assurance befitting a man of his youth and pedigree, a man who might have been in demand had it not been for the gravity of his rank. He would take his pick of the men and they would leave the next morning, astonished at the skill and ferocity with which he fucked. Never the same man more than twice, and they were always gone by morning.)
"You came down via the ridge, right?" John asked. "The route on the map?"
"Yes," Adamska nodded. "It was guarded by helicopter. It was sheer luck we made it down at all."
"Well, that's where we're catching our ride out." John shielded his eye from the sun with one dirt-streaked hand, peering up into the treetops. "Think you can work us up a little more luck?"
Adamska was aware of Eva's eyes on him. Scanning his face, registering every minute movement, every twitch of his jaw and flicker of his eyelids. He wanted to swat her away like a mosquito.
"I'll see what I can do," he said, and he thought he saw Eva purse her lips in disappointment.
"Okay," John said. "We can't waste any time. I've already radioed in the helicopter. We have maybe two hours. Let's go."
Eva blinked slowly. "Right now?"
"Got something better to do?" Adamska asked. He had been soft on her, letting her rest when she needed to, timing their journey based on her ability, and not his own. John's brisk pace was always going to be a shock to her system.
As they headed into the jungle, Adamska wondered if he would regret treating Eva with kid gloves.
***
Where Eva had previously been welcome company, suddenly she seemed to be a constant presence, a ghost over Adamska's shoulder. It wasn't fair of him and he knew it; it was hardly her fault that he could not stop pining for things that were never going to happen.
After an hour of walking, the sky burst open and the rain that had threatened for days finally began to fall. Slowly at first, a treacle-thick drizzle dripping from the leaves. As they progressed, the rain doubled, tripled, quadrupled in intensity until they could no longer hear themselves speak over the thunderous sound of water beating against the treetops.
It was a relief. The droplets stung Adamska's sunburnt skin, hitting him like a handful of coins. It soaked his clothes and streamed down his face, washing away several days' worth of sweat and dirt. It sliced through the cloying, thick air like a knife through butter.
"Couldn't it have waited until we were out of here?" Eva yelled, her voice tinny over the roar of the water.
I've waited days for rain, Adamska thought. Impulsively, he leapt into the air, his hands finding slippery purchase on a low branch. He threw his entire weight behind it, dragging it down, the damp bark splitting under the pressure.
By the time Eva realised what he was doing, it was too late.
A great stream of water gushed from the displaced tree and engulfed her, crashing to the ground. She let out an inappropriately high-pitched yelp. Still hanging from the tree, monkey-like, Adamska grinned widely at her. It was perhaps the first time he had really smiled during this whole affair, and Eva's indignant reaction, coupled with her ragged, half-drowned appearance only served to fuel his amusement. It was childish, and spiteful, and a hundred other things Adamska should not have been delighting in.
He had expected some sort of admonishment from John, but he merely looked at him with curiosity. Perhaps a little taken aback by this impulsive act of mischief; Adamska was the gift that kept giving, the enigma that never stopped surprising. He liked that. He liked staying just out of John's reach, throwing curve balls every time the other man thought he'd got the cocky Russian kid all figured out.
Only one thing remained constant, and that Adamska had no control over; the ease with which John could coax his allegiance. All it took to secure was a kiss, and increasingly even less than that. The crooked smile John seemed to reserve for Adamska alone. Christ, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Adamska was the spy. Mind games were his reserve. And now look, a pitiful man who could be disarmed by the right kind of smile. Who could be sent to some dusty hellhole to track down a person he had very little interest in on the promise of some nebulous reward.
The worst thing was knowing that John did none of this out of malice. Hell, he probably wasn't even aware of the power he had. He'd always been oblivious to his own charms.
In the rain, the forest seemed to take on a different quality. The sunlight that had illuminated the dark space beneath the treetops had disappeared. All around them were great masses of dull greens and browns, and empty spaces coloured grey by rain. The droplets beat a fast rhythm on the ground, driving them onwards, and as the ground rose the trees began to separate, showing a patchwork of grey overhead. Good sneaking weather, but that advantage could go both ways, and Adamska found himself growing increasingly paranoid, tracking minute movements with his eyes,
John walked a little way ahead of them, scouting out the near distance.
Despite the rain, and the soft ground which made progress slow and laborious, Eva had not complained. She looked pitiful; her clothes clung to her skin, her hair plastered to her face. She looked small, and a little afraid. That was understandable. With such poor visibility, there could be enemies lurking unseen just beyond the wall of water. Despite the relief from the heat, it was becoming obvious that nobody felt particularly good about this sudden change.
Somewhere in the distance, a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
"With any luck, they'll have relaxed the patrols. You know, because of the weather." Even as Adamska spoke, he knew he was clutching at straws. The closer they drew to the ridge, the more apprehensive they grew. It was all very well hoping for an easy exit, but what was hope if not the flimsiest of emotions? A fervent wish based on how things ought to be, as if the universe gave a fragment of a fuck about your opinion.
"With any luck," Eva agreed uncertainly.
A momentary gladness flitted across Adamska's mind. They both knew it was bullshit and yet he sensed her agreement was designed, at least in part, to reassure him. To foster the thought that maybe he was right.
She cared about him, at least a little. Who'd have thought it?
****
"Stop."
The command came from nowhere. John ducked into a crouch and Adamska followed suit, craning his neck in the direction John had been heading. Nothing but grey, and a fine mist of rain which seemed to obscure everything beyond. Still, if John had seen something...
"What's there?" Adamska said in a low voice. Behind him, he saw Eva lower herself slowly, creeping forward until she was roughly between them. Her jeans and shoes were caked in thick mud and clung wetly to her legs.
"I saw shadows. Movement." Losing an eye had not diminished John's abilities. Adamska had long ceased to feel guilty about it; it had hardly been his intention. He had no control over luck, or mindless acts of altruism.
Of course, if John had not acted the heroic moron, that bullet would almost certainly have killed Eva.
The pang of guilt that came on the heels of the thought was still slight enough for Adamska to dismiss.
He squinted into the distance. Still nothing, and complete silence to boot; perhaps John had seen a bird, or an animal, the silhouette of something fast and smart and good at staying hidden. Or perhaps the creeping paranoia that had so afflicted him and Eva had finally started to nip at John's heels.
He was about to fire some pithy remark at the other man when he finally saw it.
A dark blot in the foreground, moving nimbly and without sound. Followed by another, a less graceful specimen whose motions came accompanied by the splash of mud and the crunch of twigs.
"Son of a bitch," Adamska breathed.
"There was a third," John muttered. "I saw three of them. Where's the other one?"
The blots were moving in their direction, slowly taking form as they came closer. Limbs came into focus, and hands and guns, and Adamska was contemplating making a break for it (his revolver tucked into his palm, ready at the slightest provocation) when there was a sudden sound from behind them, and he knew that it was too late.
The third man stared dumbly down at them, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing.
In the brief window of time afforded by his moronic behaviour, Adamska had already unfurled from his position, striking out like a coiled snake. He rammed the butt of his gun into the man's cheek; the satisfying crunch of shattered bone reverberated through his arm. He fell to the ground in an undignified heap, limbs splayed, and Adamska placed a boot square in the centre of the man's chest.
"Don't even think about moving," Adamska said.
Behind him, there came a sudden burst of rifle fire, a clattering racket as bullets embedded themselves in the foliage. John and Eva were still low, relying on the darkness to keep them hidden until the enemy drew closer.
Adamska was wide open, a lone figure in the dim light.
The man squirmed beneath him. His nose gushed blood, so dark it might have been black.
"The first rule of combat: always be prepared." Adamska ground his heel into the man's sternum and was rewarded with a choked whimper. He could sense Eva's eyes on him, and knew she would be discomfited at the way he revelled in the man's pain. "You let me surprise you. That was a stupid mistake."
The man babbled something in a language Adamska did not understand, eyes wide and glassy and afraid. He couldn't have been much older than twenty. It was no excuse.
Another burst of rifle fire. Adamska felt a rush of air as bullets flew past, thudded into the forest floor. Christ, they were bad shots.
"Any time you feel like it, John," Adamska muttered.
He needn't have spoke. John chose that same moment to break cover. Adamska saw, over his shoulder, the blur of movement as he and Eva leapt from their hiding place, weapons raised, and was entranced for a half-second at the fluidity of motion, the strange grace with which John moved.
There followed a long moment in which sound and movement and light and dark all blended into one, dizzying and indistinct and punctuated by the sort of sharp, breathless agony that could only be a bullet slicing through flesh.
Adamska realised then that he'd broken the first rule.
Through the haze, he thought he saw the man beneath him smirk. His hand travelled to his side in a long, sweeping motion that seemed to take hours. His fingers came away bloody, and he lifted them to his face, staring uncomprehendingly at them.
He heard the snap of a pistol being reloaded, and reacted in the way that had become second nature. The handle of the revolver slipped beneath his fingers and as he lined up the shot, he realised he was no longer sure where the man ended and the ground began.
The sudden cessation of movement from beneath his foot was all the confirmation he needed.
"Adamska!" someone shouted, and he stumbled backwards, struggling to stay upright. The grey cloud at the edge of his vision seemed to be closing in, and although Eva's face was no more than a metre from his, it seemed horribly distorted, as if seen through broken glass. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders, shook him so that his brain seemed to rattle in his skull, and the one coherent thought that slipped into his mind was that he should be trying harder to stem the blood loss.
His hands felt their way to the bullet wound, jammed themselves against the blood-sticky flesh. Close range. The bastard had caught him at close range and who could tell how much internal damage he'd caused? Blood seemed to spill from between Adamska's fingers. He lowered himself into a crouch, resting his head on his knees, clinging tenaciously to the last threads of consciousness. What a stupid thing to do. A fucking rookie mistake, taking his eyes off the captive - the armed captive - and why? Because he'd been staring at John's ass. A split second loss of concentration and here he was, plugging the hole in his side with his fingers.
Eva's hands, hot even through the rain-soaked fabric of his uniform, shaking him, telling him to get up.
I deserve this, he thought.
His eyes had slipped closed before his face made contact with the ground.
*
No.
This is not how it's supposed to end.
Get up, Adamska.
That voice, strangely familiar, floating through the darkness like a wisp of cigar smoke.
Goddamit, Adamska. Get up.
His own voice, heard through a filter of age, and sharp-edged vodka, and bitterness.
What are you, boy, a fucking weakling? Get the hell up. Don't think you can rest yet.
Okay, Adamska thought numbly.
And he pushed.
*
"Adamska!"
It seemed to him, even through the grey, that the scene was almost exactly as he remembered it. His face, pressed against the damp ground, still prickly with sunburn. Eva's panicked presence at his side. The bullet wound, burning just beneath his ribs. He could only have been unconscious for a minute.
"Mnf," he said.
He pressed his palms flat against the ground, pushing himself up, and felt a fresh gout of blood seep into his clothes. With every movement his head swam, the world pitching violently backwards, sideways, spinning in long, drawn-out circles.
Christ, it was just a bullet. He'd been through worse.
Adamska slowly uncurled into a standing position. For once, Eva's hands on his back were welcome, holding him steady even as his limbs threatened to buckle completely. "Where's John?" he asked. His voice was thick in his mouth; his lips struggled to form the words.
"He went ahead," she said. "To see if there are any more of them."
"Oh." He'd found himself stuck at an angle, his torso inclined slightly forward. His left hand pressed against the wound, and he wondered offhandedly whether the uniform was ruined beyond repair.
"He'll be fine," Eva said.
"I know," Adamska replied. He stepped away from her, freeing himself from her touch. Of course John would be okay. He didn't make stupid mistakes. Didn't take his eye off the enemy, even for a second. In the near distance, the two other men lay on the ground, staring up at the sky with unblinking eyes. Their weapons were missing. Adamska noticed the Simonov at Eva's side, and the flash of something between the trees that indicated John's return, rifle in hand.
"The cliff is just past this patch of forest," John said, somewhat breathless from the uphill trek. "Adamska. Do you think you can go that far?"
"Stupid question," Adamska said. He had intended for it to sound offhand and casual, but he knew from John's expression that it hadn't sounded that way at all. "Yes. Let's move."
John's hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. He lacked the strength to push past, and hissed through his teeth in frustration; a single goddamn bullet, and here he was, kitten-weak and helpless. "What?" he snapped, drawing himself sharply up to his full height. The resulting wave of nausea almost sent him back down to the ground, but he held firm.
"Where did you get hit?" Neutral tone; John's face betrayed no pity, no disgust. John gently prised Adamska's hand away from the wound, studying the area, judging its proximity to major organs. His warm fingers wrapped around Adamska's cold palm, unperturbed by the blood.
"Just a graze," he said, and John smirked a little at that.
"Alright," John said, freeing Adamska's hand from his grip. "We should assume heavy enemy presence. Stay alert."
They moved slowly, for stealth's sake as well as Adamska's. The ground veered sharply uphill as they progressed and the effort made Adamska's head ache. He was still bleeding. How much blood could a man lose before he had to stop? He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.
*
As they neared the top of the cliff, moving along the thin path in small, shuffling steps, it quickly became apparent that the helicopter was nowhere to be seen.
"Shit," Adamska said.
John grunted in response, heading to the cliff edge. He scanned the horizon. The sky was heavy with clouds, a uniform grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Adamska eased himself to the ground. An unbearable tiredness had crept up on him. He heard John speaking into his radio, and the loud buzz that indicated a response. It seemed to take hours, although it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
"Stay awake," Eva said, crouching beside him.
That surprised him. He hadn't realised she was close by.
"I know," he said, a little petulantly. Then, as an afterthought, "I'm fine. Really."
She gave him a knowing look. "We're both very impressed with how tough you are, kotyonok. But even you can't run on empty."
"Not empty yet," Adamska muttered.
Eva squeezed his shoulder and got back to her feet, heading over to where John stood. Adamska watched them exchange words, acutely aware of their body language; formal, unfamiliar, uncertain. The chill in the air between them was obvious, and yet it seemed a comfortable kind of chill, one without anger or malice.
It was cold now, up here, where the wind blew freely and the rain fell without obstruction. Adamska had been shot enough times to know what hypovolemic shock felt like; bullet wounds had an unpleasant habit of bleeding profusely, and trekking uphill did not usually help matters. The pain had become so much white noise, a constant dull throb that registered somewhere in the depths of Adamska’s mind. But Eva was right; he could not go on like this for much longer.
Admitting that to himself hurt worse than any bullet wound ever had,
A low clicking sound drifted towards them from above the trees.
“Think you can climb?” John asked.
“I guess I’ll have to,” Adamska replied. The wind doubled in intensity, throwing leaves into the air; they spiralled down, past the cliff edge and into the forest below. The telltale chatter of helicopter blades sounded from over his shoulder, growing steadily louder.
And there was something else. Something quieter, higher-pitched, coming from ground level.
It had previously occurred to Adamska that their escape had seemed far too easy. The complete absence of enemy presence since the last incident seemed....abnormal, somehow. It had seemed a safe bet that they would encounter more along the way.
Adamska sat on the grass, momentarily unable to move, and watched with dull surprise as the men came into focus, winding their way through the trees, armed to the teeth and clearly prepared to catch their targets off-guard.
He heard Eva swear loudly behind him.
"Adamska," John said. "You need to get up."
He bit back the sarcastic response he'd formulated and struggled to kneel. In the corner of his eye he saw the silhouettes approaching, the crisp green of their uniforms now visible in the bright daylight. As he watched, panting with effort, the helicopter swept over the trees. The sound of it was deafening, and the men bursting through the forest seemed taken aback, stopping momentarily in their tracks as the trees whipped back and forth.
"Adamska, now."
He realised then that he had forgotten how to move.
They hadn't started firing yet, but it wouldn't be long. He willed his arms to move, his legs, his fingers and toes.
The harness hung limp in the air, looking for all the world like an insurmountable challenge.
Adamska had managed to shuffle into a crouch when he felt someone grab him from behind, wrenching him into a standing position. A flare of unbearable pain radiated out from the wound and he retched, feeling bile rise up into his throat, burning inside his chest.
"Get to safety," he heard John say.
"Can't," he muttered. "You...you and Eva..."
"Adamska, you're hurt. I've got to get you out of here."
An irrational surge of fury coloured Adamska's cheeks red. "I don't need rescuing," he said, even as John wound the harness tightly around him. "Eva should go. There's too many of them..."
John's mouth, hard against his, was all the persuasion he needed.
"Get in the goddamn harness," John said, and there was no anger in his voice, just irritation at his stubbornness. His face was so close Adamska could taste the sweat on his skin. The straps hurt, but he could hardly complain about it. As the winch began to turn, he felt his feet pull sharply off the ground and he was in the air, dangling like an idiot while Eva and John held off the enemy with borrowed weapons. He watched stupidly from his vantage point, his bloody hands clinging onto the rope as if for dear life.
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion, a movie played out below him. John and Eva, moving ever closer to the cliff edge as the enemy advanced, the chatter of bullets lost beneath the helicopter’s mechanical whirr. The burst of bright blood, exploding like a scarlet firework as bullet impacted against enemy bone. Adamska had never thought of battle as beautiful and indeed, the haphazard choreography of the firefight below was far from graceful. But - and perhaps it was the blood loss - there seemed something almost romantic about it all, the two heroes outnumbered and yet unflustered, aim unhindered, the very epitome of professionalism.
The man who pulled him into the helicopter seemed familiar, although Adamska could not place him. He wriggled free of the harness, let it drop to the ground and watched as Eva clambered in, not bothering to fasten it around her.
“We’re under fire!” someone yelled from the cockpit. “Johnny, speed it up!”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” the man yelled, and pulled Eva up. Again, the harness was lowered, and John began his ascent, without the luxury of cover. A few of the men had retreated into the forest, but they were still greatly outnumbered, and those that remained had taken to firing rather indiscriminately into the air, aiming for whatever part of the helicopter they could hit.
Adamska saw the man aim between John’s eyes before he’d even steadied the rifle.
The pain seemed to have sharpened his senses, and the revolver seemed lighter than normal, the barrel cooler. Though the buzz in his head was insistent, he lined up the shot and steadied his arm with his free hand.
The man’s finger pressed down on the trigger.
The last thought that ran through Adamska’s mind before the recoil turned the world black was a half-formed prayer to nobody in particular - please, don’t miss.
EPILOGUE
Adamska had never thought he’d be quite so grateful to be on American soil, but there was a first time for everything.
The bandage wrapped around his torso felt too tight, the American sun too weak, and as they exited the plane it seemed to him that the thick Asian air had weighed down on him for so long that he might remain stoop-shouldered forever.
It was Zero who welcomed them back, embracing them as if they were heroes. He smiled with too many teeth; the upward crease of his mouth deepened the furrowed scar that ran the length of his face, made his features hard and sharp and predatory. Adamska accepted the handshake with an amiable smile, watching with irritation as his hands slipped into John's with comfortable familiarity.
“You must be Eva,” Zero said. A flash of teeth; Eva smiled, charmed by his geniality. “You gave us quite the run-around, I must say.”
“I was well-trained,” Eva replied.
“I can see that. Come, we have much to discuss.” Zero guided her, one hand on her elbow, and as they headed off, chatting like old friends, Adamska was suddenly aware of John's gaze burning the back of his neck.
“I owe you, Adamska,” he said.
“You owe me nothing,” Adamska replied. It had been a lucky shot. Christ, he hadn't even seen it; he'd been too busy being unconscious.
John's hands travelled up his spine, rested on his shoulder blades, and it took all of his will not to turn around, to give in to the embrace. Even the sharp friction of John's cheek in the crook of his neck, the brush of John's lips against his throat could not make him give in. He was nobody's pet.
“I don't think you understand,” John said, and his voice was a whisper against Adamska's skin.
“I know what I am to you.” Deadpan. He felt John drawn back slightly, the warmth of him receding.
“And what's that?”
Adamska did not respond. He jerked sharply out of John's grasp.
Behind him, he heard John chuckle.
“What?” he said, turning sharply on his heels; his features contorted into a scowl.
“You're a proud creature, Adamska.” This time, when John's hands ran the length of his torso he did not flinch, and when John's fingers brushed the bandaged area just below his ribs, so gently as to almost be loving, he found himself staring defiantly up into the other man's face and was surprised at what he saw there. That John could still catch him off-guard, even after all this time, was truly a wonder.
“Let me pay you back,” John said.
For once, Adamska did not have a smart retort.