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The idea of Big Boss keeping an office of any sort was mildly amusing to Adamska. The idea of a man who'd spent the greater part of his life crawling through swamps, eating all manner of bugs and bottom-feeders--while covered in muck and grime and God only knew what--maintaining an immaculate mahogany desk and well-stocked if horrendously neglected bookshelves was dangerously close to silly, in his opinion. Of course, Adamska of all people knew that the appearance of a thing was tantamount to its importance, and a desk such as that which occupied John’s current arrangement was a basic necessity for any man needing to intimidate or formally discipline underlings...but still. It didn’t fit with all he knew of John, whom he’d seen singlehandedly beat a crocodile to death and fashion its skull into a rather fetching cap.
Even in the comfortable surroundings, even in the dim lamplight spread out in faint patterns across the rugs, even with nearly half a bottle of whiskey beneath his belt, John was poised and hyper-aware.... almost comically so. Adamska watched him scan his surroundings, good eye narrow with well-founded suspicion. Years of their games had rendered him well-learned on most all of Adamska’s tried and tested methods of cheating. The blond thanked whatever twisted God might be watching their late-night sessions for that... without John’s razor-sharp memory and near-supernatural ability to intuit where Adamska’s thoughts would next tread, his life would have been dull indeed.
Satisfied that there were no mirrors or cameras in the near vicinity, John uncovered his letters and looked up at his opponent, expression tight and unforgiving. The score was a near thing; at this point their games invariably grew terse and taut, though they both knew how this would end, as it always ended.
The man looked as though he’d swallowed something bitter when he finally dropped three letters onto the board. “....B-A-R. Where I wish I was. Doing something other than playing this silly game." He scowled and grumbled, reaching for the whiskey. "Mark me three points, I need another shot.”
“Oh, be a good sport.” Adamska cooed, coyly. This suggestion coming from him was laughable, as they both knew he hated losing above all things, and was prone to throwing fits and/or plotting obsessively to regain ground when he fell behind. “It’s not like you’re losing to someone who speaks English as a second language, or anythi... oh. Wait.”
He passed the bag of letters to John in jest--the thing was empty. That was it then... there was no more pool to draw from. Adamska’s pulse quickened, his senses on high alert. Their game of Scrabble had reached critical mass, and at the core of his being sat one absolute certainty--he must defeat Big Boss.
Adamska was a man of many talents, and a man well aware of his own abilities. He spent hours honing his arts--marksmanship, CQC, the odd bout of revolver juggling... but of these many qualities, he was most proud of his poker face. His ability to remain impassive and emotionless at any time was near and dear to his heart.
At the moment it hid his panic.
Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit. Forget B-A-R for a measly three points--there was nothing, absolutely nothing on his rack of letters he could play for any real impact. I-N-Z-A-N plus his secret weapon, a blank square he’d saved just in case. Now, though, this would do him little good--it earned no points in and of itself. He stared at the board, stared at his hand, and then at the board again, long enough that John, polishing off his drink, leaned back languidly and eyed the man.
“With you, silence never bodes well,” John commented lightly, an evil look on his face. God damn it, he suspected. “I’m waitin’ on pins an’ needles for your next brilliant maneuver. It had better be a showstopper, after all the shit you gave me.”
Adamska spared a moment to glare at him, ruffled. “Fine.”
He played five of his six tiles.
“Z-A-N-Z-I-B-A-R??” John read, incredulous. “You have got to be shitting me.”
Adamska merely smirked, an aura of smugness frosting his fine features. He counted the points, counted them again. John only had four letters at his disposal--with this lead his victory was assured.
All it would take was a bluff. The game was good as won. “Your turn.”
“No! It is not my turn, you can’t play ZANZIBAR in Scrabble!” John slammed his glass down on the floor. “It’s a.... a thingy. One of those words you can’t play. A noun.”
“Nouns are playable. BAR is a noun. Well, and a verb, but definitely a noun.”
“No. It’s a name. You can’t play names--anything you capitalize you can’t play, it says so in the rules.”
“Show me,” said Adamska, and John knew he had lost. The blond would never challenge him to produce something that could actually be brought to light and prove his claim wrong--it was not how he operated.
“You know as well as I do that...”
“... that proper nouns are allowed,” Adamska corrected, lifting a finger in gentle contradiction. His expression was magnanimous. “If you want to play one, I’ll let you, too. Fair’s fair.” The rules of this particular game had been shredded last week when Adamska found the instruction booklet under a pile of old newspaper in the soldier rec room. He hated playing by other people’s rules.
John glared at the younger man, then down at his letters. Adamska drank in the way his jaw set, picked the telltale signs of flush beneath his stubble, glorying in his victory, however small. Besting Big Boss at anything was a rare occasion, and one worth celebrating.
Then--suddenly, horribly--John’s expression lit up.
Adamska raised a brow. “What are you...”
A rare, broad grin spread across John’s face, making him look ten years younger. It was a look that said I am about to do something so goddamn ridiculous you won’t even believe it.
This look set Adamska’s blood running cold. There was no cliff for John to jump off, no absurdly tiny gun with which he might destroy something massive like a helicopter or giant robot, no filthy creature to be eaten for the sole purpose of disgusting his teammates, which could only mean...
John threw down all four of his letters and leaned back, spent.
He looked down at the word. “What..... what the hell?”
“ZANZIBARLAND,” Big Boss said, smugly. “Triple word score. Beat that, you smarmy Russian bastard.”
Poker face be damned--Adamska’s expression flooded red. “Haha, very funny. That’s not a fucking word, boss.”
John’s vexing expression did not change. “Is too.”
“Is not!”
“Prove it.”
“It is not, god dammit!! You’re the one making outrageous claims about imaginary words, the burden of proof is on you, old man!”
John’s smugness knew no bounds--in fact, he poured himself another whiskey and lifted it to Adamska in a cheeky little toast. “Gosh. It sure would be nice if we had a dictionary to check my claim with...”
He was really fucking drunk, realized the blond, flushing deeper. There was no dictionary. He’d thrown the thing into the fireplace several months back, in the midst of a heated argument about the exact definition of the word “espionage” and whether or not cardboard boxes constituted a valid school of thought on the art of sneaking.
“Okay then,” the Russian raged, “what the fuck is Zanzibarland?”
“It’s a country,” John informed him, delighted with himself. “Known for the.... for the.... hmm. Zanzibarland tawny owl. And the Zanzibarland hamster. Very cute. Tasty, too.”
“You’re cracked. I don’t need a dictionary to know there’s no such country. You can’t just stick -land on the end of things and expect me to buy it.”
“You’re right, it’s not a country. Not yet. But I’m founding it,” John informed him with drunken pride. “So it counts. Ideas can be proper nouns. Evolution is a proper noun.”
“No, it’s not! You don’t capitalize evolution!” Adamska exclaimed, looking at John as though he’d sprouted an extra pair of legs from his forehead. “You--look, you’re being ridiculous. I’m not letting you win this game.”
“Well then, it’s fortunate that I don’t need your permission to kick your ass,” John said, happily. He tipped his whiskey back and drank again.
Deceptively quick and hoping to take advantage of his opponent’s inebriation, Adamska slipped from his casual, seated position to a crouch and then launched himself at Big Boss. Scrabble pieces flew everywhere as his foot clipped the board--but he paid no mind. His entire focus was his hands, which had snagged the other man’s shoulders.
John rolled backwards with the impact, drew his knee up between them and, in nothing more than a heartbeat, planted the sole of his shoe in Adamska’s gut. With a grunt and a heave he shoved the man off, sending Adamska flying. He struck the bookshelf upside down and collapsed in a heap, dusty volumes raining down all around him.
“OW! Fucking--OW!” As Adamska scrambled up, another book struck him on the crown of his head with a particularly pointy corner. Glaring at Big Boss, he braced himself and charged again.
This time John was up on his feet and crouched at the ready. Adamska came at him, striking with one fist then the other, all attempts to grab and grapple the heavier man falling far short of their mark. John countered two of the blows, took a glancing strike to the shoulder, then spun and kicked Adamska’s legs from beneath him, following the younger man down with expert precision. With a groan and a thump, the blond found himself flat on his back, John straddling one leg, clenching his wrists against the floor hard enough to make his fingers tingle.
“Zanzibarland,” John declared with finality, “is a word.”
“It is--iii--ahhh--ACHOO!” Dust in his eyes and nose, Adamska sneezed once, twice, three times. Eyes watering, the blond shot John the proudest look he could muster given the circumstance. “Shove off.”
Ignoring his attempts at recovering the last few shreds of his dignity, John simply burst out laughing. “You’ve got dust on your--oh, here.” He let up on the man’s left hand and thumbed away a smudge of dirt on Adamska’s cheek. “Give up?”
“Fine,” the blond grunted, pissy. “You win. You win the fucking Scrabble game. Happy?”
“Zanzibarland,” John mused, entirely too merrily for Adamska’s taste. He did not get up, just grinned down at his lover. “Sounds nice, doesn't it? We’ll have to put it close to Russia, just so you feel at home.”
“I don’t give a shit about Russia,” Adamska whined. “Don’t look so smug. You only won by bending the rules. It’s practically cheating.”
“How is that different from any time you’ve ever won anything, ever? Be a good sport.”
Adamska could feel the spilt whiskey seeping through the back of his shirt and sighed, his defeat for once inescapable. “You’re a real prick, you know that? P-R-I-C-K, prick.”
“Takes one to know one,” John teased, and--after giving Adamska’s face a cursory dusting off, leaned in for a victory kiss.