Chapter Text
”Sokol…”
He felt his body shake.
“Sokol!”
It was louder this time, closer.
“Sergei, come on buddy. Wake up.”
He blinked sluggishly, body tense and heavy. He took a deep breath, relishing the feeling of air in his lungs as he noted a dull burn in them. It almost felt like he had been drowning. There was a soft but numb feeling in his chest, hallow.
“You were trashing around,” the voice said. Sokol dully noticed that a hand was still resting on his shoulder. His legs were tangled into the bedsheet. “Bad dream?”
Lifting both his hands, Sokol ran them down over his face in an attempt to rub the sleep from his face. His skin felt too tight, stretched too hard to fit his frame. He gave an affirmative grunt when he realized he hadn’t answered. It earned him a thoughtful hum as he stared into the ceiling of the bedroom.
Silence settled between them. Sokol turned his head slightly when the hand was removed from his shoulder and he heard the rustle of fabric. His eyes lingered on the back of Dallas, before reaching out and gently running his fingertips along the older man’s spine.
“Sorry if I woke you,” Sokol mumbled, English awkward and accent thicker than normal. He could feel Dallas huff, letting his hand drop as the mastermind got out of the bed.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy,” Dallas replied as he pulled on his boxer briefs. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. 03:16. What an ungodly hour to be awake at, but here they both were. “Wanna grab a smoke with me?”
“Sure,” Sokol replied before popping himself up on his elbows, trying to untangle his legs from the bedsheet. His body ached for more sleep. His years on the ice had worn him out and so had his years of heisting. He wasn’t even thirty, but he had days where his knees ached so badly he had to take painkilling medicine.
He shivered when a cold breeze hit his skin as he got up and located his own discarded boxer briefs from the night before to put them on. He stretched, trying to dampen the ache in his body as he padded after Dallas, towards the open balcony door. He accepted the cigarette wordlessly handed to him before putting it between his lips, letting Dallas light it.
“Spasiba,” he offered, taking a drag from the cigarette. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of smoke filling his lungs. He used to smoke ages ago. He had a faint memory of the older kids at his school hanging around, coughing more than smoking. He remembered his first cigarette; it had tasted awful. He had coughed and coughed afterwards, had felt so sick. It was a brief affair before his mama smelled the smoke on him.
He was more scared of her than lung cancer.
He softly blew out the smoke between his lips as he opened his eyes. Washington D.C. looked peaceful at night, he noted in the back of his mind. No police sirens, bullets or explosions. He was half way through his cigarette before Dallas turned to face him. Sokol gave a soft sigh, stalling the conversation by taking another drag of the cigarette.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Sokol wanted to say no, because he really didn’t.
“Is nothing,” he said instead, cigarette still caught between his lips, muffling his words, “just a dream about my mama… blyad, I dunno.”
He made the mistake of making eye contact with Dallas. He hated that unreadable facial expression the other man almost always wore, even when it was just the two of them. It was like a mask, but one he forgot to take off.
Or perhaps didn’t want to take off.
It made Sokol feel like an open book next to him.
Sokol let out a sigh, resting his elbows against the balcony railing as he took another drag of the cigarette. He awkwardly rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“You miss her?”
Sokol gave a halfhearted shrug before blowing out some smoke, though he remained silent.
“I miss my mom sometimes,” Dallas said after a moment of silence. “She used to call every Christmas. Always left a voicemail because I was never there to pick up the phone. She stopped doing it a couple of years ago.” There was a brief pause as Dallas took a drag of his own cigarette. “I dunno what happened. Maybe she got tired of calling and me never picking up or calling her back… or maybe she kicked the bucket.”
“Kicked the bucket?” Sokol asked a soft frown appearing on his face.
“Eh... you know, died,” Dallas supplied, earning a soft ‘oh’ from the Russian.
A silence settled between them again, heavier than before. It made Sokol shift his weight awkwardly, idly fumbling with his cigarette.
“I haven’t spoken to my mama since I arrived here,” Sokol eventually said. He had thought about her plenty of times. What was she doing back in Russia? Was she happy? Did she miss him? He had considered calling her before but never been able to truly muster up the courage. He had her number written down in his unreadable handwriting on a piece of paper, tugged away in a book about mechanical engineering.
Sokol felt a soft and somewhat sad smile gently tug at the corner of his mouth when Dallas gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. He appreciated the silent support instead of pity. God, how he hated when people pitied him, especially for something that was his own choice.
“Let’s go back to bed, milayi. I’m starting to get cold out here,” Dallas suggested, earning a huff in return from Sokol.
“You say it funny,” the Russian commented as he took a last drag of his cigarette before killing it and throwing the remnants of it into the ashtray.
“I say it exactly like you should,” Dallas countered.
“Still sounds funny.”
The older man rolled his eyes, giving the Russian a nudge with his shoulder as they stepped inside again. Dallas closed the balcony door behind them as Sokol sat down on the bed.
Lying back down on the bed, Sokol looking at the ceiling before turning his head enough to watch Dallas lie down on his side of the bed. Sokol slowly crept closer, pulling the bed sheet with him to cover them.
“Thanks for the smoke,” Sokol mumbled, earning a soft chuckle in return.
Closing his eyes, he realized he felt safe here, warm.
Home.