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Ocelot had never been a smoker. He remembered one particularly blistering winter night when he’d stepped out of the barracks with a few other soldiers. One of his few social moments and recognizing this as an uncommon display of interest from the teenager, one of the older men offered him a cigarette. It was poorly rolled, probably due to shaking fingers. It got so very cold in Russia but Ocelot had adjusted quickly and his teeth hardly chattered anymore. They lit the cigarette for him and he took a single drag and coughed. One of the men laughed but Ocelot didn’t mind. He was bundled in clothes that made him look even smaller than his slender frame and he was choking like a girl on a little smoke. The older man chuckled low in his throat and Ocelot watched as he plucked the cigarette from his fingers and put it between his own, taking a long hard drag, the end lighting up like a bright dying star. Ocelot breathed in the warm smell of smoke as the soldier exhaled. Ocelot was never a smoker but he liked the smell.
In 1964, he smells a more pungent rougher smokiness on John’s skin. A cigar, he thinks. He’s been around one or two of those. He’s seen Volgin pull his parlor trick of lighting one using just his fingers but the smell now is different. Richer. A better cigar? Or maybe it was just the dirt and sweat mixing with the smoky scent. Maybe it was just because it was him.
1979 and Ocelot is in Afghanistan and trying to decide if he enjoys his new job. Shalashaska they call him. Prison. Between his many double lives, Ocelot finds the name appropriate. There are places he’d rather be than in this desert. There are people he’d rather be beside. But his hair is still short and he is still GRU. The tobacco here just doesn’t smell the same.
1983 and he’s at his side again. But he’s in a deep and heavy sleep. Ocelot isn’t sure if he’ll ever see blue eyes again. There’s white flowers in a vase on the bedside table. He doesn’t know what kind but they’re familiar somehow. From them comes a sweet but not overpowering aroma. The hospital room chair is uncomfortable and a twinge has set down in his spine. But he’s here and while he’s here nothing will happen to John...Big Boss. Not so long as Ocelot is alive. Once, he lights a cigar just to smell the sharp scent and out of some weird longing that maybe, just maybe, John will wake up.
1984 and he’s still at his side and Ocelot is happy. Following orders doesn’t bother him when they’re coming from those lips. He’d do anything if John just asked. And John does ask a lot. They’re in some jungle somewhere, recon mission. He’s providing support while Big Boss does his work. He watches from afar through binoculars as he skillfully lays over one man after another. Ocelot cracks a smile. He makes everything look easy. He’s too caught up to hear the footsteps behind him until there’s a boot in his side. He reaches for his gun and he’s fast enough to take on out but not the other two and the butt of a rifle comes down on his temple and just like that the sky goes white then black. When he wakes up, John is beside him taking a long drag off of one of his favorite cigars. “That could have been bad, you know. You’re lucky I was paying attention.” Ocelot grimaces and sits up. “Take care of yourself, I can’t lose you.” His heart lurches but not from the pain in his skull but from the same warm pain he’s had in the center of his chest since the first time he saw John in action. Since the first time he smelt that cigar.
It’s still 1984 when they part ways. He leans across the motorcycle and lights John’s cigar. “We’ll meet again, Adam.” John says and Adam nods, that familiar pain grabs hold of him again. He doesn’t believe him, he can’t and he’s right. He won’t see him again. In 1999 he won’t even get to see his burnt remains before the Patriots take hold. He's disappointed. John used to be better at keeping promises.
In 2014, when he takes his final breaths, he imagines that he can smell that warm and grassy scent of the smoke from John’s cigar.