Chapter Text
“Hey, watch out!”
Marusya’s heart skipped a beat, turning round, ready to draw her pistol from the holster against her thigh. But Woods had a sly grin, pointing up at something hanging above her.
Mistletoe. Marusya let out a long sigh and relaxed her arm.
“Trigger finger kicking in?”
“No worse than when you kicked that dummy.”
He scowled.
“Hey you were supposed to be keeping that quiet?”
“And who’s heard me?”
Just as she spoke, Adler crept up behind her, putting a hand on her waist.
“Heard what?”
Marusya pointed up at the mistletoe. Without hesitating, he leaned round and kissed her.
“Я тебя люблю,” he whispered.
“Love you too.”
They jostled through the crowd, taking a while to find the corner booth Sims had already reserved, right beside the jukebox. He always had the knack for scouting the one spot least likely to be overheard or spotted, while still having a good view of the rest of the bar.
“Heads or tails?”
She looked at the coin in Sims’ hands as she slid in beside him.
“Tails.”
He tossed it. She had called wrong; it was heads. Sims smiled.
“You get the first round, Bell.”
Adler took out his wallet and slipped her a twenty.
It took a while to get the various drinks, the bar nearly at capacity with only two very bored bartenders on duty. Marusya could only listen to the conversations around her. A young couple, filled with hormones, excitement and social anxieties, the boy throwing out ‘oh really? that's so interesting’ more times than she'd had hot dinners in the space of five minutes. Scattered every now and again with a nervous little laugh from the girl at his corny jokes. An older pair, debating whether or not to go to the pizza place down the street or microwave the last of their frozen leftovers later. And can you believe what Susan Newbury brought to the school pot luck Saturday? A drunk man lecturing an even drunker man on the differences between snooker and pool, and which one actually required more skill (snooker, but then again pool, but then again…).
And here she stood amongst them. Normal. Civilised. No better or worse than them. The people she had once hated before even hearing their voices. And who would probably hate her if she spoke. But she was allowed to speak. They had bigger concerns than a Russian lady.
To not always be fighting, to not always fear paying back the debt of bloody hands. To just be allowed peace. It was more surreal than any dream, any drugged up delusion. But no matter how many times she pinched herself, threw herself into a cold shower, drank stimulants, did anything that would surely have ‘woken her up’— the world did not collapse around her like a cardboard set.
She carried the drinks back to the table, grateful that there was only four of them to handle. A couple of obvious missing persons; Mason was at home, and Lazar was still on mission somewhere, although he promised to try and visit in the New Year. They had been writing to each other, haphazardly between garbled communications and long missions, and it had been extremely absolving to find their strange bond was sincere. If he ever did resent her for what happened to Park, he never gave hint of it. It was so strange; she disliked everything he stood for, and had been his enemy as much as America’s. Yet somehow she knew he was in it for the right reasons, like her. One of the few that were.
But what did she know about right and wrong? She was just fumbling through the chaos, holding on to the foundation, finding the few jewels she could while dodging the shit.
Her jewels were around her, teasing each other, trying to win bragging rights for long past missions. Debating about which actor was the best, which movie was the best, which music was the best, and then finally realising it was more fun to talk about who was the worst and then have someone eventually defend the underdog. Sims had his money on deNiro, while thinking Richard Pryor was the best in comedy. Woods agreed about deNiro, but preferred George Carlin— when Adler pointed out he didn’t act in films, he continued to stress his point. Adler had a soft spot for Pacino, but still thought Brando would be the best of all time. He didn’t rate comedians, except Gene Wilder. But that was because he was actually an actor.
Marusya didn’t have a clue who any of them were talking about, and decided on just sipping on her vodka with a smile.
"What are you guys doing for the holidays?”
Marusya glanced at Woods. They hadn't really thought about it. Adler had insisted on a tree, and she suspected it was the first time he'd had one in years. First time he’d had someone to decorate it with, too. Disagreeing about the exact shape and colour of every ornament hadn’t been fun, but there was no-one else Marusya would rather pointlessly argue with.
“We’re going to have a quiet one, at home.”
“Is your dad coming?” Woods asked.
Marusya looked at Adler.
“I… didn’t ask…”
Adler shrugged.
“I mean, it’ll be awkward as hell. But we'd break the ice eventually. If you want him there, just say.”
It was a tricky question. Marusya had slowly begun to rebuild their bond— or simply establish a tangible one, seeing as their previous relationship had been so feeble for so long. Once a month, she’d sit in the stands to ‘watch’ a confusing game of baseball with the once intimidating Major Belikov. Now not so imposing as he chowed down on questionable hot dogs and cheap beer while he booed or cheered depending on whether whatever team he supported hit the ball. They had a lot of ground to still cover. But he had covered enough to mend the major cracks; he told her some facts she needed to know, and showed some love she had long deserved. The rest would come with time.
"Sure."
“Well, tell the old man I said hi,” Woods said, “and I hope Santa brings him some good Stoli.”
“If you want to join us, you can tell him yourself.”
Woods shrugged back into his seat, somewhat uncomfortable.
“Ah, I’ll be okay you guys. Would’t want to intrude. I’ve got the Masons to gatecrash if I want to ruin a couple’s Christmas.”
“Drink!”
Marusya frowned for a moment, then rolled her eyes. She forgot somewhere between the second and third round that they had implemented a rule that every time they mentioned one of the ‘missing persons’, they would have to drink.
“Plurals don’t count!”
“Uh-uh. Drink.”
Begrudgingly, Woods downed his beer. He scrunched up his nose at Adler, as if taunting him, then suddenly groaned.
“Remembered it’s your round, huh?” Adler smirked.
Woods said nothing, simply rising to his feet and stomping over to the bar.
“You excited to have your first all-American Christmas?” Sims asked her, already suspecting her answer.
“I love it, Candy and Capitalism, what more could I want?”
He returned her little smirk.
“I actually am kind of … curious about it,” she replied seriously. “I never really put much value on it. I liked the Hannukah ceremonies more. But I kind of gave up on that all when I was in my 20s. You don’t have time between places. This is the first time I’ve ever been staying somewhere fixed.”
“We tried to do it when we were abroad,” Sims mused. “Had Christmas in Da Nang. Tinned oranges round an overcooked, underfed chicken. Spam and mustard on rye. Pickled sprouts. Sounds worse than it was. But Adler had the brainwave of mixing milkshake powder with vodka and the orange juice. I don’t know what it was about that powder but it made the vodka ten times stronger. Or maybe we were just underfed.”
“Sound good for next Friday, Bell?” Adler smirked.
She rolled her eyes, and flicked her straw at him.
“I’ll just add the orange juice," he mused. "You get drunk enough without any mystery powders in the mix.”
“I do not!”
Adler gestured up and down at her.
“Well…”
“At least I’m actually drinking, instead of sipping on wheat curd.”
“That's not what beer is.”
“Who cares what it is? It’s a ball-less drink.”
“Ball-less drink? Excuse me?”
“For men with no balls.”
A faint click. Someone had put on a new song. Leaning back from the jukebox, Sims nudged them both with his foot.
“Dance, before you start brawling.”
“Hah-hah,” Adler snorted. “Not enough beer in the bar, buddy.”
But when Marusya looked across into his inscrutable face, she saw the faint flickers of his smile. To everyone else around them he’d look cold as stone. But she knew he was soft, the softest thing she'd ever seen. Because of her.
“Don't let the poor guy waste his dime,” she said, rising to her feet and holding out her hand.
Adler paused long enough to keep up the act, then took it gleeful as a child. She put her arms round him, and he put his arms round her waist, and they began to sway like they were caught on a breeze. They could be soft together. Nowhere else in the world but in each other's embrace. She heard Woods give them a gentle jeer but the noise was beginning to fade away. Only Adler’s steady heartbeat, the soft exhale of his breath, and the melody were audible. She could only feel his strong hands, his warm chest, his slightly harsh stubble against her skin. She touched the scar; it was instinct, and she got déjà vu. It no longer scared her as it had done for so long, a sign of another fake scenario. Now she simply believed it was a sign she was where she was supposed to be.
“Herr G.I. Joe… don’t let me wake up.”
“We'll keep dreaming together, Engelgesicht. Wake me up when you want me to leave.”
“I’ll drug you to stay in here with me if I have to.”
"Only if it's the last time, I'm tired of the game of Tag with Drugs."
He gave a giggle at his own joke. As he threw his head back, she darted in to plant a kiss below his jaw. He rested his chin on her head and she tilted her head to rest along his arm. On and on they swayed, the circling motion beginning to make her head swirl like she was on a carousel. Only without those ugly scary fake horses. She began to laugh herself. It was pouring out of her nowadays. So easy to find things to amuse her, to make her happy. She squeezed her hands round Adler's shoulders and held on for the ride.
“Can't you switch it up buddy?” someone barked roughly behind them. “It's been on three times. They can save the last waltz for home.”
Sims gave the heckler a dismissive glance as he carefully slotted in another coin. He hesitated for a brief second, his finger hovering over a new title, then staring directly into the other man’s eyes, hit the same song again with a smirk.
“Hey look,” Woods said again, pointing at the ceiling with a quirked lip, “invisible mistletoe this time!”
Beneath the phantom point, Marusya and Russell were entwined, mouth to mouth; breathing into each other, free from the rest of the world for as long as their lips met.