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There's a hand gripping the side of his neck, a calloused thumb resting on his jaw. It seems, to all appearances, like a harmless caress, but Adam knows full well that it could become a lethal embrace in a matter of seconds.
“Did you know about this before today?”
The words are spat out, harsh and grating.
“No, honestly-” Adam begins, then breaks off, wincing at John’s contemptful sneer.
OK, fair enough - “honest” probably isn’t a word that anybody associates with Ocelot; but then again - he isn’t Ocelot, right now. He’s just Adam.
It’s just the two of them alone in John’s apartment, no mission, no ulterior motives, not even any weapons drawn. Just an unfamiliar awkwardness instead, a horrible tension between them that Adam’s never felt before, and he hates it.
“No,” he says, trying again. “John, I swear to you, I had no idea. If I’d known from the start I would have told you - we would have - would have tried to stop her or something. This is the first I’ve heard of it. It’s sick.”
The words are stuttered, slightly frantic; his usual sparkling eloquence nowhere to be found. He can almost see the excruciating silence hanging between them, and though John’s eye on him piercing through his own is an uncomfortable sensation, he can’t bring himself to look away, always rendered helpless when caught in John’s sights.
Eventually, the fingertips loosen their grasp. John’s hand falls away in a manner that could be resignation, or could be disgust; and he turns, striding across the room to sit on the edge of the bed without another word.
Adam exhales a long breath, cursing quietly. He flexes his fingers, vaguely wishing he had his revolvers, or anything, really, to fidget with, to distract him.
He crosses over to the open window, and the silence stretches further between them, pulled taught.
Leaning out over the sill, he casually surveys the traffic below with a feigned indifference that’s a force of habit; though the lack of an audience and the tell-tale quivering of the hand reaching into his pocket for a cigarette render the performance futile.
He exhales a cloud of smoke and scowls at a young woman pushing a pram along the sidewalk opposite.
Les Enfants Terribles.
He’d never heard those six syllables before today, but now they just won’t stop bouncing around inside his head.
I knew there was something fishy about that bitch, he thinks bitterly.
Really, it had been naive of Dr. Clark to think that her black project would remain a secret forever - especially not with Adam around. Raised from birth to be an expert at getting hold of information he damn well shouldn’t, it was inevitable.
But Dr. Clark’s failings aside, Adam’s own are undeniable. Even his considerable omniscience has fallen short this time, and the “I told you so” on the tip of his tongue is directed at himself, not John.
The dirty secret has been uncovered, sure, but it’s far too late to do anything about it.
They’ve already been born.
The woman on the sidewalk has stopped for a moment, desperately trying to console the baby in the pram who's kicking and screaming like there’s no tomorrow.
It’s probably the heat making it cry. Now the height of summer, it's one of those excruciating days when the air is suffocating and the humidity is oppressive, the skies all grey and brooding.
A drop of rain hits his sleeve, and Adam glares at the dark clouds looming above in disgust.
Yeah, yeah, he hates getting wet, just like a cat. Real funny. But he can’t help it, and he’s always hated thunderstorms most of all. Trust there to be one approaching now, when today is already such a huge pile of shit.
Shooting one last glare at the heavens, he turns away from the window, goes across to the ashtray on the bedside table to put out his cigarette.
He hesitates, then, hovering awkwardly a couple of feet away from where John is still sitting all hunched over, an unlit cigar resting between his lips, a cold fury still festering in his eye.
Not for the first time, Adam wishes he knew what John's thinking.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asks into the silence.
There's a beat or two before John seems to actually register Adam's question.
"No," he says eventually.
Brushing stray locks of hair off his forehead, he looks up at Adam, a tiredness creeping into his anger. "No, but…guess I'm not the best company right now, huh? Leave if you'd rather."
Adam sighs, shakes his head a little. He can never pass up the opportunity to spend time with John, though it's not as if he himself is any better company.
In fact, he's decidedly pissed off, really.
Restless, he wanders over to the window again, raises his fingers in the shape of an imaginary revolver, mimes pulling the trigger on whichever passerby he takes a disliking to. Including the baby.
Adam's not quite sure what's pissing him off more: Dr. Clark's betrayal itself, and all its connotations and repercussions; or the very fact that that's what's pissing him off.
He's angry for John's sake; and yeah, OK, that's…pretty normal, probably, but it's not like he usually gives a shit about other people. He wouldn't be able to do his job so well if he did.
Of course, he cares for John, and has been infatuated with him ever since that day in Tselinoyarsk; and OK, they've been lovers for several years now - which is a strange thought in itself.
But theirs isn't exactly a normal relationship; being the kind of people they are in the kind of work that they do, it's not as if they see each other every day, and there are certainly no coffee dates every weekend or trips to the furniture store together.
Sure, there have been whispered confessions in the dead of night; and every year on the anniversary of her death, Adam has held John in his arms, kissed away his silent tears; but for all of that, there's still a casualness about their relationship that makes it seem less real.
And these last couple of years in the Patriots have felt especially hazy, like being in something of a dream; they spend their meetings dicking around, laughing at Zero behind his back, and the rest of the time Adam is mostly away, employed elsewhere.
They meet up sporadically; get together to fight and to fuck, staying in bed all afternoon after spending the morning lovingly beating the shit out of each other in the name of CQC practice.
They're always at home in each other's company, a perfect match of two probably-insane-weirdos; but often, true feelings and words of any substance are left unspoken, both of them choosing to make their time together into a form of desperate escapism, away from the bloody reality of the outside world.
All of which is why today's revelation has left Adam so disconcerted.
In the bleak light of day, with dark clouds looming over John's head and the stench of betrayal heavy in the air, he's aware of the sensation of being rudely awoken from a dream; a bucket of cold water splashed over his head, bringing him back to reality.
Brought up short and cornered with the realisation that actually, what he feels for this man goes far beyond a simple infatuation, a lustful attraction.
For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health; and all that crap.
What's pissing him off further is the fact that he has no idea what to even say to John. What is there to say?
"Wow, sorry your friend cloned you without your consent, that must really suck. Wanna fuck and forget about it for now?"
Yeah, he really has no idea.
All Adam knows right now is that he hates seeing John like this, sinking in the depths of his own mind with a new burden tied to his ankles, dragging him down.
Coming to a decision, then, Adam turns away from the window and goes over to where John is sitting on the edge of the bed; kneeling between his legs so that they're face to face.
Tentatively, Adam reaches for his lighter and ignites the unlit cigar still resting between John's lips.
"John," he says softly. "Do you really think I had anything to do with it?"
John regards him impassively for a moment and takes a few drags of his cigar before exhaling shakily.
"Not really," he says quietly. "But I trusted EVA, and she lied to me. I trusted Dr. Clark," - he spits the name - "and she did this. What's to say you won't do the same?"
Even Adam's stony heart cracks a little at that. John's always been far too trusting (or to put it less kindly, too dense) for his own good.
"So you mean you trust me?" he asks. "Not sure that's wise."
John narrows his eye. "You're trying to convince me you wouldn't betray me by saying I shouldn't trust you?"
"Well, if you never actually trust me then technically I can't ever betray you."
There's a hint of a smile playing about Adam's lips as he says that, and he's relieved to find that John mirrors it.
The next thing he knows, without any warning he's being pulled to his feet and onto John's lap, strong arms encircling him and a mass of dark curls resting on his shoulder.
Adam sighs and clings to him, one hand carding through John's hair, the other rubbing soothing circles across his back.
"John, seriously, I had no part in this. I promise," he whispers.
"Oh, and your promises are trustworthy, are they?"
"I promised we'd meet again. And I came all the way to your shitty little cabin to find you, didn't I?"
John just huffs at that, kisses Adam's neck in acceptance.
They stay like that for a minute, just holding onto each other quietly, until John pulls away to look Adam in the eyes. The fury in his own has dissipated, leaving only a tiredness there; and a vulnerability.
"I'm sorry," he says, tracing a finger across Adam's cheek.
The blonde blinks in surprise.
"For what?"
"For suspecting you. I know you wouldn't do that to me - not really. But I just - I don't fucking know what to think, or believe, anymore."
"Oh, John, don't - you don't have to apologise. I'd feel the same if I was you."
"Yeah, but I bet you'd be too smart to let this happen to you in the first place."
"Oi, get a grip, old man. It's not your fault that bitch did this to you, jeez."
"You did warn me about her, I seem to remember."
"Yeah, but - that was just a petty jealousy on my part, disguised as intuition; I didn't have any real reason for it. Don't blame yourself, idiot."
Vaguely, Adam is flattered that John even remembers that insignificant conversation from two years ago.
But before he can say anything further, he abruptly finds himself forced off of John's lap and onto his feet, caught in a chokehold with one muscular arm around his neck and the other pinning his right arm behind his back.
John's breath is hot on his neck as he nips at Adam's ear.
"Distract me," comes the gravelly whisper, and Adam almost laughs.
OK, so maybe he really could have just said something like, "Sorry you've been cloned, let's have a fight to take your mind off it."
A smile stretches across his lips. This, he knows. This is familiar.
Maybe they're both a little lacking in healthy communication skills, but what they don't say with words they can always say to each other with their fists, with their bodies.
Of course, Adam hates losing in any situation, regardless of whether he's been dwelling on his undying love for his opponent or not, so he won't hold back.
Thrill of the fight slowly creeping into his veins, he kicks his feet back, hitting John's shins, and jabs his left elbow into John's side at the same time, using the momentary loosening of his hold to free himself of John's grasp.
He backs a few feet away into the middle of the room, both men pausing for a second, watching each other in anticipation.
This is the kind of tension he'll never get tired of.
That day in '64, the sensation of John's eyes on him, appraising his every move as twelve more bullets were slammed into a newly-greased chamber was nothing short of exhilarating; and it's exactly the same now.
Grinning, he darts to John's blind side, punching him in the stomach and using all of his strength to bring John to the floor, pinning him down.
Winded, John smirks slightly as he looks up at Adam, his chest rising and falling.
"Hang on," he breathes, holding up a hand. "It's too hot for this. Let me get my shirt off."
Already sticky with sweat, Adam has to agree, and he starts to make quick work of his own shirt buttons.
Big mistake, actually - because the next thing he knows, John's foot is connecting with his chest, winding him enough so that John can expertly reverse their positions and pin Adam to the floor instead.
Adam pouts, puffs his cheeks and blows stray hair off his forehead.
"Not fair."
"When do you ever fight fair?"
Adam merely sticks his tongue out in reply, and then they begin in earnest.
A flurry of limbs, nothing else on their minds except the anticipation of what the other will do next, dancing around each other as they fall into a choreography now so familiar after years of sparring with each other.
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Of course, a fairly small bedroom in a high rise apartment block isn't the ideal terrain for close quarters combat; especially not when there are other people living in the block too.
They're caught in a tense moment of pause, Adam bouncing on his toes, John in that same weird stance as always, both of them transfixed, neither wanting to look away from each other for a second; when there's a loud thumping from down below.
"Shut up in there, will you?" comes the muffled voice of whoever their disgruntled downstairs neighbour is.
Adam snorts, drifts back to the surface of reality, and as he takes in the state of the room, and then the state of John, with his hair all messed up, shirt hanging open and sweat dripping down his forehead, he promptly bursts into giggles.
John himself just smiles and shakes his head, the last threads of tension between them finally snapping.
He extends a hand towards the younger man.
"Peace?"
"Never," grins Adam, and yanks John on to the bed, pinning him down.
"I win," he claims.
"If you say so, k-"
Adam has no choice, of course, but to lean down and kiss John in order to prevent him from finishing the annoying nickname of "kid", but he suspects that might just be what John is hoping for.
They lie there for a few minutes, catching their breath in between kisses before peeling off their sweaty clothes.
The anger in John's eye is gone, but there's still a quiet despair, a hint of desperation amongst the fatigue.
Adam traces his fingers gently across the older man's stubbled jaw, and asks, "Wanna talk about it?"
"Not really," is the simple response.
"OK. That's good, because I wouldn't know what to say."
"Thanks, you're a great help. Such a comfort to have you with me."
A pause.
"I just - don't wanna talk about it right now, at least. I just - for now I…"
Adam gently runs a finger across John's lips. "What?"
John sighs, closes his eye. "Just - distract me a little longer. I've thought about her enough for one day, I want her out of my head. I want you instead."
If there are now two women John is going to choose not to refer to by name, things could get a little confusing, Adam thinks vaguely, but it's clear who John means right now, at least.
It's true that Adam never really liked Dr. Clark, but he knows John considered her a friend, seemed happy to talk to her, so for her to go and do this…it's baffling, really, as well as downright unethical; and even if he can't know exactly what John is feeling right now, he can understand the need to escape, to ignore the betrayal weighing on his mind, if only for a few hours.
"You've got me," he says softly, looking down at John with a fondness in his expression that he'd probably find deeply embarrassing if he could see himself right now.
Adam's dimly aware of thunder beginning to crash outside, and he grimaces a little; but he soon forgets about it as they become tangled up in one another, all other sensations washed away.
If the downstairs neighbour has any further complaints to make - well, they'll probably fall upon deaf ears.
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Much later, when the night has crept in, still as hot as during the day, they lie together in the darkness, blankets thrown to the floor but stubbornly refusing to let go of each other in spite of the heat.
For all of Adam's desire for chaos, it's in moments like these, when he's pressed against John's back, holding him tight and dropping kisses to the scars on his shoulders, that he almost develops an appreciation for peace.
John's still awake, the crashing thunderstorm still loud and insistent, preventing both of them from falling easily into sleep, despite their weariness.
Adam is engrossed in his habit of counting the seconds in between the lightning flashes and the ensuing clap of thunder, when John's voice, a whisper in the darkness, interrupts his focus.
"I liked Para-Medic a lot."
Adam hums in acknowledgement, waits for John to continue.
"She wasn't just a colleague, she was - a friend. She saved my life more than once during '64, just by always being there on the radio. I'd have given up if I hadn't had her in my ear, saying dumb stuff just to get me to keep going. So I just - I never want to see her again but - at the same time, I can't…forget the times when I liked her. I might even miss her, sometimes."
"Yeah," Adam whispers, understanding.
There's nothing much else he can really say, and he opts to press a chaste kiss between John's shoulder blades instead.
He waits a while before asking into the darkness,
"What about - them? The kids?"
"I don't wanna see them ever, either."
"Fair enough."
A beat, and then John states, "I'm gonna leave the Patriots."
Adam nods to himself. "OK."
"What about you?"
"Well, I don't like the Patriots either…"
"That's not an answer."
"......but it might be useful to you to have someone on your side involved with them - a mole, or whatever. So I might stay for a bit."
"So you're going to start spying for me, now?"
"If you like."
"Hm."
Silence falls again, and Adam gently brushes his lips against the nape of John's neck, mouthing down his spine.
He's struck, then, by a need to voice how he really feels, emboldened, perhaps, by the comforting cloak of night time.
"John- " he begins, then pauses, unsure of exactly what he wants to say.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Adam's withering look is lost into the darkness. He tries again.
"John, I'm gonna- "
What, exactly? "Protect you"?
It's the word that springs to mind; if you love someone, you have to be able to protect them, after all. But that's not quite how he wants to say it.
Adam tries once more.
"John, I mean it when I say I'll never betray you," he says firmly.
"O….kay?"
"I'm always gonna be loyal to you, I swear. And I don't just mean that I'll never - love anyone else, I mean - that whatever you're doing, whoever you're fighting, whether it's war or peace or whatever, I'll be on your side. I'm yours, in everything. For as long as I live. And beyond that, if we happen to meet each other in hell."
John is quiet for a second, considering.
"Loyalty to the end?" he suggests softly.
"Yeah - something like that," Adam whispers.
There's a reverent hush in the air, the noise from the storm fading into the background.
"I never asked for your loyalty, you know."
"I know. But I want to give you it."
A beat, and then, "Okay," John whispers simply; and the kiss he presses to Adam's hand, clasped tight in his own, is almost unbearably tender.
In that moment, Adam can feel the last lingering shreds of attachment to the faceless entities he works for - Russia, America, The Patriots - all falling away; swept into the storm as John rolls over in his arms and kisses Adam like there's no tomorrow.
His true loyalty, Adam realises with a contented sigh, lies in something far more meaningful - he belongs to someone, real and tangible and alive.
Loyalty to the end, huh? Yeah. That sounds pretty good, he thinks.
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