Work Text:
----- somewhere in america, late 1960s, around three months later -----
It's a gloomy evening in early spring; there's a fierce wind whipping up fallen leaves, and a barrage of rain and hailstones lashing relentlessly against the cabin windows. The pristine coating of snow has disappeared, leaving behind a few muddy patches of slush and ice, and up above the night sky is all clouded over, not a star in sight. In a word, it's miserable.
Inside the cabin, however, relaxed in the tattered armchair by the fire, shielded from the elements, John is decidedly upbeat.
He's humming some off-key tune as he uses his old combat knife to whittle away at a small wooden figure he's working on, pausing every now and then to take a drag from his cigar.
(Civilian life being what it is, John needs something to keep his hands and mind busy - and there are only so many times you can dismantle and clean your weapons unnecessarily before it becomes a bore - so wood carving has become one of his hobbies over the past couple of years.)
He's not the most adept of craftsmen, and his missing eye makes it a little harder, but the collection of miniature wooden figures dotted about the mantelpiece do have a certain charm to them.
They're all animals of various kinds; some are creatures he's seen in the wild himself, frogs and birds and an attempt at a deer, but a lot of them, at Adam's predictable request, are big cats. A rather stumpy looking lion, a yawning tiger, a leopard missing a leg; and, in pride of place, a slightly shabbily painted ocelot which, while lacking somewhat in anatomical accuracy, has a definite character to it.
(Adam's delight when presented with the little wooden cat had been comically cute. Of course, if you were to tell any of the unfortunate souls who ever had the displeasure of experiencing his interrogation methods that Adam was the kind of person whose eyes would light up in innocent joy at the sight of a badly painted wooden ocelot, they probably wouldn't believe you, John muses, but there it is.)
Propped up against that same ocelot is the source of John's cheerfulness: a postcard from Adam that had arrived earlier that morning, saying that his current mission is practically complete and he expects to be back in about a week.
He's been gone almost three months, which isn't the longest they've gone without seeing each other since they started, as the youths would currently say, "going steady", but nevertheless, John had missed the younger man, perhaps more than he thought he would.
It's easy to imagine Adam, matured since Tselinoyarsk yet still in many ways that same hot-headed young major, as the clingy one, as the blushing schoolgirl with the unshakeable crush on the cool, indifferent older boy, as the pursuer rather than the pursued; but in truth, it goes both ways, even if it had taken John a little longer to realise it.
And besides, it gets tiresome out here in the middle of nowhere, in this small rural hideaway, and Adam's unique company is a welcome antidote to the sleepy small town stagnation that's been John's retirement for the past several years.
Although, there are some wheels beginning to turn in regard to John's post-retirement prospects. He's kept in contact with Major Zero, Para-Medic and Sigint; usually they exchange casual conversation, easy banter between old comrades - but lately, it's been a little more focused.
On the living room table, next to his typewriter, lies a scattered mess of papers, with half-formed ideas scribbled down - the word 'Foxhound' appearing more than once. Nothing definite, but John's itch for the field is coming closer to being scratched.
Taking one last drag of his cigar before stubbing it out, John puts down his knife and considers his work with a critical eye. This figure is rather self indulgent - a husky dog, the kind that pulls sleds, standing on its hind legs, front paws outstretched in what he hopes will look like a cute pose. Depending on how much longer I stew here , John thinks, I might just end up with a whole miniature sled-team.
Placing the half-finished figure on the coffee table, John stands and stretches, unties the short ponytail that he's adopted lately and runs a hand through his unruly hair. He should probably make his way to bed soon.
It's a Saturday tomorrow, but he has a shift at the local gym, where he works part-time as a general combat instructor; and now that the mornings are a little warmer, he's resumed the habit of going for a 5am jog before he sets off for work.
He's just about to put out the fire when he's distracted by a screech of brakes outside; and a few moments later there’s a loud knocking on the door.
Immediately hopeful and suspicious simultaneously - because as much as it could be Adam showing up earlier than expected, it could also be an unwanted visitor - he grabs the handgun kept concealed in the living room, tucking it into his back pocket as he ventures into the hallway.
He opens the door a crack, and, peering out into the gloomy downpour, the sight he's met with almost makes him laugh out loud.
Standing there on the sopping wooden steps, drenched already just from the brief walk from his car to the front door, is Adam, looking every bit the embodiment of a straggly, half-drowned cat; looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards and any other cliche to that effect.
His clothes are less than tidy, his tie crooked and shirt rumpled; and it looks like his mission had gone less than smoothly, judging by the scorch marks on his beloved overcoat and the smattering of bloodstains across his suit jacket. There’s a rip in his coat where a bullet must have grazed past him, and his red-gloved hands are balled into tense fists. The whole sorry image is topped off with a comical look of sullen fury on his face that makes John stifle a laugh as he ushers the younger man inside.
"Bad day at the office?" he smirks, unwrapping Adam's damp scarf from around his neck.
Adam merely growls, focused on stripping off his wet coat and shaking out his hair.
John leans against the wall and watches him with a grin, glad to see him but always ready to tease.
"Thought your mission was 'practically complete.' Run into some trouble?"
Adam curses, first in Russian then again in English for good measure. He flings off his suit jacket, kicks off his shoes. Peels off his bloodstained gloves with a scowl.
Once down to his shirt and trousers, he opens his mouth as if to begin a long tirade, then, seemingly changing his mind, closes it with a resigned huff, and glares at John with a pout.
Taking pity on the younger man, John smiles and takes his hand, dragging him into the living room, where Adam makes a beeline for the fire.
After returning the handgun to its usual place, John wanders into the kitchen, scans the sparse cupboards and decides instant noodles are probably what's called for right now.
By the time he returns to the living room with a bowl of steaming noodles, Adam is looking slightly less murderous, thawed by the fire and by whatever presumably alcoholic beverage he's got in his hip flask.
He accepts the noodles with a rather sheepish smile, and for a few minutes neither of them speaks while Adam eats his fill.
John casts his eye over the blonde, taking in the bloodstains in his hair, a couple of scratches on his cheek. He's lifting his arm a little gingerly, but it's probably his pride that's most severely wounded. It's an indisputable fact that Adam hates losing, hates screwing up in any way, hates not coming out on top.
In that aspect, absolutely nothing has changed since Tselinoyarsk.
John wonders what had happened. For all his teasing of Adam, he admires the younger man's skills, knows he's not an easy man to beat, and it’s not often someone gets the better of him. Not someone other than John, at any rate.
He scoots a little closer to Adam, and asks, "So? Want to tell me about it?"
He's not expecting specifics, doesn't even know where in the States Adam's been and he probably never will, but the concept of "top secret" can always be relaxed to a degree.
Adam huffs a little, leans his shoulder against John's, then winces and draws back.
"There's not much to tell. I screwed up, is all. I thought it was all finished, I'd done what I came to do, was about to be on my merry way out of there when I was…apprehended. Seems I blew my cover somehow. I mean, they were suspicious from the start, obviously; they'd be fools to trust anyone completely, but - hell, I don't even know what tipped them off. Maybe they just didn't like me. Bastards. Whatever. Anyway, it turned into a shootout."
"Evidently. And you lost?"
"Tch. What do you think I am? Of course not. Besides, if I’d lost I wouldn’t be here."
A pause, and he scowls.
"But I screwed up the mission. Essentially, I was just there to get information, and report back by radio in secret while on-site. I did that bit fine. But the final part of it was to bring back a set of photographs…and they got destroyed in the gunfight, which my bosses," - he sneers the word - "are throwing a fit about. All I could do was make a fast escape. I was going to head straight back to my place, patch myself up, change my clothes - fuck , you know I didn't even have time to kill the son of a bitch who put a bullet hole in my coat? - and then I was gonna call you tomorrow, but...well, I wasn't actually too far away from here so I just kept on driving and…"
He trails off a little, deflated.
"I guess I just wanted to see you," he finishes with a huff.
John laughs, but not unkindly. Adam's usual swagger is gone; and while the contrast between his haughty frustration and the tail-between-his-legs demeanour underneath it all is undeniably amusing, the exhaustion in his eyes and lack of his usual theatrical manner make him seem so vulnerable.
John gently takes the empty bowl from his hands and leans across to kiss him. It's flattering, really, the way Adam always leans into it so eagerly, hands gripping at John's shirt. That's another aspect which hasn't changed since their early days.
John wipes the rain droplets off Adam's cheeks, where they'd dripped down from his wet hair.
"You can't win them all, kid," he says with a grin.
He knows Adam hates being called that, which is why he does it, but he knows Adam knows that - and at this point, the blonde has mostly stopped bothering to protest it, so the nickname has stuck, less of an insult and more of an ironic term of endearment.
As it is, Adam merely scoffs.
The concept of losing anything is abhorrent to him, clearly. Even if he doesn't particularly care for the people he works for, he sees failing to complete a mission as a personal failure on his part, a blow to his pride. That stubbornness in him, the need to prove himself, will probably never waver.
John reaches for Adam's tie, pulls it off and inspects a bruise which is peeking out near his collarbone, gently runs his finger over it.
"What are your injuries like?"
"Nothing's broken. But I picked up a lot of burns. There were some oil barrels taking part in the shootout."
John hums in acknowledgement and gets to his feet.
"Stay there, I'll go get the first aid kit."
Adam nods morosely and leans back on his hands, closes his eyes for a moment.
Shortly, John returns, army issued first aid box in hand. He sits down cross legged opposite Adam.
"Let me?" he asks, fingers on Adam's shirt buttons.
Another nod.
John carefully undoes Adam's shirt and surveys the damage. He gives a low whistle as he takes in the considerable amount of burn marks on Adam's skin. There's an especially bad burn on his right shoulder, as well as several deep cuts on his chest.
"Pretty bad. But at least you still have both of your eyes."
Adam snorts, but he must be feeling pretty rough, because he even has the decency to look slightly shameful at the allusion to that incident.
John sets about carefully dressing Adam’s burns; doesn’t even tease him for hissing at the sting of the antiseptic before he gently rubs ointment onto the reddened skin and wraps it in bandages.
As he moves on to the cuts, he can feel Adam’s eyes on him.
It’s not the ideal reunion; under normal circumstances, they would probably have been all over each other by now - though he doesn’t even necessarily mean it in that way.
Even though they stopped being ‘enemies’ years ago, they’re both the kind of people who enjoy a good fight, and John hasn’t yet found a better sparring partner than Adam.
Those first encounters in Tselinoyarsk had been fun, and their tense grapple in the WIG a welcome distraction from the despair of killing her ; but John enjoys their contests far more now they’re lovers, not enemies.
They know each other better; they can read the others’ moves. They know exactly how to wind the other up, catch them off guard; always flirting with the prospect of a genuine defeat but never going so far as to cause serious injury. Adam knows, for instance, that the thing which irks John the most is if he attacks him from his blind side - a move guaranteed to land the younger man pinned to the floor in a vice-like grip.
Usually, it’s unclear who’s the winner, or perhaps they both are. Most often, they just finish up lying tangled on the floor, sweaty and exhausted and covered in each other’s blood, laughing far too giddily for two grown men.
As it is, it looks like they’ll have to hold off that kind of thing for now.
John can’t say he minds, though - it’s enough to just be, sometimes.
Itching though he is to return to the field, when he’s with Adamska it’s different; he’s never bored, finds he enjoys their moments of stillness just as much as the tension.
“I’m sure you’re thinking some real pretty thoughts, but do you mind finishing what you’re supposed to be doing?” comes Adam’s disgruntled voice just then.
John smiles apologetically, realising he’d paused in his careful task of stitching up Adam’s cuts and had instead been absently running his fingers across Adam’s chest.
Once it’s all done, he takes a moment to wipe the last bits of dried blood from Adam’s face and hair, before gently pulling him to his feet.
“Come to bed,” he says. “You should just sleep, now. In the morning after you’ve showered I can redress the wounds, if you like.”
“Yeah, OK,” is the sleepy response, as Adam rests his head on John’s shoulder for a moment.
“You gonna move or or you gonna sleep standing up in here all night?”
“Ugh.”
“Your eloquence astounds me. Y’know, I had to deal with broken bones, electric shock torture, some weird kid shooting my eye out and nearly drowning all in one day, yet here you are whining over a few burns. Pathetic.”
“Shut up. I’m not as freakishly tough as you.”
“Like that’s news to anyone.”
“Bastard.”
They’re both grinning, though. John kisses Adam’s hair, then his forehead, then his lips for good measure, before taking his hand and dragging him upstairs.
Soon, they’re nearly asleep, Adam lying gingerly on his back with John curled against his left shoulder so as to avoid the injured one. John’s arm is resting lightly across Adam’s stomach, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on his hip.
“When ‘m healed ‘m gonna fight you and win,” Adam mumbles, eyes closing.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, kid.”
“Are you ever gonna stop calling me that?”
“I will if you beat me.”
“So you will, then.”
“You wish. Go to sleep, stupid.”
Silence for a few moments, and just as John assumes Adam has done just that, he hears a mumbled, “John?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
John opens his eye, slightly surprised at the three words usually left unspoken between them, before relaxing again, glad of the darkness to hide the stupid grin that’s stretching across his face.
“I love you too, Adamska,” he whispers, and this time there’s no response.