Chapter Text
22 june 1976
Sevastopol, Ukrainian SSR
June in Ukraine smelled like candy, sea and hot pavement. Fiodor always came here in the summer, if he managed to get himself leave. His superiors flew to Sochi, he made the trip from wherever he was stationed that year - usually it was either near Saratov or Severodonetsk - to Sevastopol. This year it was from Saratov, unfortunately. It’d taken him a couple days of tumbling around in various trains. He didn't mind. It was worth it.
It was so hot he could swear the cement would start melting any minute. But he always preferred heat over cold, summer over winter. Especially with being stationed in Russia more than half of the time, cold and wet weather was the norm. He lost count of the times when it rained in the afternoon, and his unit stayed out all night working and then somehow the wet fabric of his jacket literally froze solid in some places. The ‘waterproof’ gloves always somehow ended up soaked through too.
This was much better. Much, much better.
His brother was leaning back on his chair, cigarette in mouth, watching the women passing by.
“She's nice, eh? That one in the red dress.”
Fiodor forced his eyes to peel away from the waves. His gaze flickered through the crowd on the promenade. There were three women in red dresses. All three were frankly unremarkable.
“Uhuh,” he finally said, his attention going back to the sea. At least till he heard that very annoying, very long sigh, the one that inevitably meant that a lengthy tirade was coming.
“You're fucking hopeless, Fiodor.”
That got met with a small side eye.
“You don't have a wife either.”
“Yeah, but at least I'm getting it on the regular? I swear, there has to be something wrong with you. You're not that ugly, so it's not that-”
“Aw, fuck off,” Fiodor scowled. “Look who's talking.”
The scars on his brother's face stretched as he laughed. A messy, irregular net of reddened grooves - shrapnel from a fuel explosion did that, back in 1971. To Fiodor's dismay, it seemed to attract the ladies to Mika even more.
“Respect your elders, dipshit.”
“Ey, watch it. You're older, you're dying first. You want me to tell them that your dying wish was for Ilya to get your plane to himself?”
It was Mikalay's turn to grimace.
“Why did I agree to come here with you again?”
“You didn't ‘agree’ to shit,” Fiodor laughed, stubbing out his cig on the overflowing ashtray. “You asked me. Oooh, brother dearest, my girl left me again and I’m freezing my ass off in Siberia, please let's go on vacation together this year- Ay, халéра-”
The shin kick was swift and hard. It didn't exactly help that Mika wore his military boots off duty too. Thankfully, Fiodor did the exact same thing, and so could retaliate appropriately.
“Asshole.”
“Yeah.”
They both just stayed in silence for a bit, as they tended to do. Long nights spent alone in that small apartment, back at home, waiting for mom and dad to come back. Then an awkward break for a couple years - Fiodor too young to really know anything, Mika old enough to not want to spend his time with a kid anymore. Some weird resentment in that mix too, a splash of jealousy still remembered and still felt. By both sides.
Then even longer nights spent together over beer and with friends. And then leaning on each other, going home. Usually in silence.
Then the fucking military.
“Where are you even getting sent to next?”
“They're moving us back down south. Kazakhstan. You?”
“No clue,” Fiodor mumbled, picking up his drink again. The ice inside had melted almost fully. “Comrade senior lieutenant told me they don't know yet. You'd think Spetsnaz would have better organisation. Or maybe it's just classified.”
“But you've been near Kavkaz for the last year, right? They'll probably move you back up north.” Mika paused for a second to light a cigarette. “Or here, let's hope. Maybe in Belarus. Or, like, Estonia?”
“I want Germany,” Fiodor sighed, leaning back. “Or Poland. You know. Abroad, for once.”
“Курица не птица, Польша не заграница,” his brother laughed. “But Germany would be nice. Maybe you just don't like slavic girls, eh? Maybe a nice german lady would be-”
“Cut it out.”
"Okay, okay,” Mikalay said, voice strained with barely held back laughter. “Alright brother, chill out, eh?”
“I genuinely hate you.”
His brother only raised his glass lazily.
The breeze was cool on Fiodor's skin, lightly blowing through the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. A short sleeve, finally, after almost a full year spent in uniform.
And fuck, he actually slept the proper 8 hours. Not only today, but yesterday too. And he'd stayed in his bed till 9, smoking and reading a paper. And he just got into Spetsnaz and the new unit commander seemed to actually know what he was doing and allowed him two weeks of consecutive leave in summer. And God, it was so nice.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The sunrays still went through his eyelids - all that he could see was that familiar reddish orange. The same one that he'd been looking at since he was a kid. Their parents had often taken him and Mika to the lake nearby, those 10 or so years ago, to a small ‘beach’ on its shore. After he got tired of swimming and making trouble, he'd just lay there, face up, facing the sun. He'd take the heat in, the feeling of his skin almost burning. His brain would finally go quiet, for a second, a moment.
He felt the same thing now. Except he was slightly buzzed. And his brother seemed to have gained enough sense to not interrupt.
22 june, 1976
Langley, Virginia, United States of America
Adler's head hurt. Like hell. Like always.
Summers in Virginia were horribly, horribly humid. Everything felt sticky and slow, even the mosquito flying in circles around the industrial lightbulb. And his fingers, covered in blood. The guy sitting in front of him was sticky too, from sweat and blood and tears and… Whatever else.
Dimitri, his name was. Caught a couple weeks ago in Nevada, putting a whole lot of diagrams and notes about the inside of the nearby military base in his mailbox. An immigrant from the USSR, been in the states since 1937. Apparently told the immigration officer that he feared for his life with the purges going around back then. Got let in with no problem. Worked as a cleaner since then.
“They caught the GRU agent too,” he informed coldly, looking through the notes he'd taken during the interrogation. “You know, your buddy, the guy you'd been leaving aaaall that intel for.”
The headache was getting worse. He wanted a smoke. He was angry.
“At least you had enough fucking sense to not work for Perseus,” he rumbled, closing the dossier, turning back to the little table that was in the corner in all interrogation rooms. “You're a loyalist, eh? To the party? To the Secretary elected by the Committee? To the rules? To what's best for your country? A real patriot.”
The guy stayed quiet. Stubborn bastard.
Or maybe he'd just passed out already. Adler didn't bother to turn back.
“But he tried to recruit you,” he mused, mostly to himself. It didn't matter what the man heard, not anymore. He'd be standing in front of a firing squad by the morning anyway. “He's doing that a lot nowadays, isn't he? They are.”
Not under the name Perseus, of course. But Adler knew. He knew every time he came across a mention of a shady guy chatting up an undercover CIA officer in a bar, talking about the glory of Stalin's days. Of a woman in Moscow that was seen entering all of the military and intelligence buildings. Or exiting. Of a creation of a new unit in Spetsnaz, reporting to a classified entity. Of a couple protege-mentor pairs in the special operations.
He knew.
He didn't say anything as he shut the door behind him. There wasn't any noise from that guy either.
Yeah, he was probably unconscious. Maybe was dying from blood loss in this exact moment.
…
The headache had spread to behind Adler's eyes too. He needed his glasses. And that cigarette.
At least the other agents seemed to notice his mood, cause no one was getting in his way, and usually they very much did.
Or maybe they did get in his way, maybe that woman he'd passed on his way up the stairs had asked a question and he had just ignored it. He didn't know. He didn't care. The mission objective was to get to his fucking office and not leave for a while.
He basically barged inside, slamming the door. And then it was silent and dark. The blinds were closed, as always.
Only at that moment did he notice how heavy his breathing was.
Fucking hell.
He went over to his desk to turn on the small lamp there. He’d been having those migraines for long enough that he knew fully well that turning on the ceiling light would’ve felt like getting his head cracked open. Then he grabbed his shades. Then that pack of cigarettes.
The first inhale felt like salvation. The bitter smoke coated the inside of his lungs and throat, lingered on his tongue as he exhaled.
The office chair creaked as he sat down. He should open the window. To air out the smoke. And maybe the fresh air would help with the headache.
But he honestly couldn't find it in himself to stand up and make those couple steps.
The second drag felt even better.
The pounding headache was easing up with every second. He could open his eyes without it causing stabbing pain anymore, which made him cautiously optimistic about how long this would last.
Without looking down, he opened the drawer - on the left - and after a bit of searching with his palm he grabbed that pill container. Swallowed two of the bitter things, for good measure. Dry. As always.
They worked quickly, at least. Soon enough he was back to feeling normal. As normal as he could, anyway. Normal was relative.
His wife was probably out fucking some other guy. He told her he wouldn’t be coming home tonight, and he knew she was cheating - it wouldn't take a genius to figure it out, she wasn't trying to hide it particularly hard, and besides, even if she did, Russell was a CIA officer, damn it. He didn’t care enough to do anything about it - besides, it would be somewhat hypocritical, looking at the three ladies he had on his roster. And that young sailor who’d been giving him bedroom eyes every time they met. Adler hadn’t decided yet whether he’d take up on the unspoken offer or not.
He’d see.
His hand traveled up to his forehead, then to his temple, his fingers pressing into the temporalis. It hurt, as expected - the soreness always lingered for hours after a migraine ended. Or days.
Finally, he got up and went over to the window, sliding it fully open. To his surprise, a pleasant, cool gust of wind immediately blew over him. It smelled… nice, almost. Green. The CIA headquarters were surrounded mainly by forest.
He rested his forehead on the window frame and just looked out for a second. It was peacefully quiet. It was American and safe. White-tail deer and foxes roamed those forests, not monkeys or pythons.
The sun was setting. His office had the benefit of facing west, though he rarely paid any attention to the views. The schedule of the sun setting and rising had no real impact on when he was working anyway. He was on call 24/7, often horribly jet lagged too. He went to sleep when he finished his tasks, not when the sun was setting. He woke up either when he felt rested, or when duty called him. Usually the second thing.
He couldn't remember the last time he set his alarm to a normal hour, like 7 AM or something. It was usually either something like 3 at night, or 9 PM. At least he usually tried to be awake when the mess hall was operating, though - he never worked well on an empty stomach and getting something to eat while the kitchens were closed without leaving the complex was basically impossible.
No wonder his wife was always so pissed off at him. He always woke her up in the middle of the night.
Not that he was very nice and lovey dovey to her either. It was a… marriage of convenience. They'd gotten married when he'd been still in the marines. It was left unsaid that the only reason they did it was so he was allowed to live off base and she got insurance. She cooked well enough and looked good enough and, if any of them actually made the effort, held somewhat interesting conversation. She had a masters of political science. Adler was pretty sure she'd wanted to pursue a phd back in the day. She hadn’t, for some reason. He didn't remember why.
Overall, he didn't think of it as a bad situation. He did think of himself as a pretty good husband; he paid most of the bills, wasn't that obvious with his cheating, didn't hit her- Well.
No, that one time didn't count. They were both drunk.
She'd been getting more pissy lately. He didn't get why.
Maybe she was on her period or something.
He let the smoke fill his lungs again, narrowed his eyes as he looked out onto the lush forests. He should go hunting again. Maybe with Woods. He missed the feeling of a heavy, proper weapon in his hands, but also wasn't in any state to go on an active combat deployment any time soon - his face and arm were still healing. Hunting was a half decent substitute. And he was fairly confident that the elk wouldn't try to retaliate. No risk of opening those freshly closed wounds.
The window made an uncomfortably loud noise as he pushed it shut. Russ just stared at it for a second, before turning his attention back to his desk. To the dossier on it, more specifically. He needed to make a somewhat coherent report from it.
He debated going to get a coffee for a second. That would require going back to the ridiculously bright and white corridor and then probably making small talk next to the coffee machine, which- Would not be ideal right now.
He'd settle for more pills; he had to be in a good condition, he'd be working for the whole night and he couldn't afford to miss anything. Even if they called him a complete paranoiac (again). Truth was more important. Hunting down Perseus was more important than whatever the brass said about him. Hunting down Perseus was more important than anything else.