Cipher:
•a secret or disguised way of writing; a code.

•a person or thing of no importance, especially a person who does the bidding of others and seems to have no will of their own.

•a continuous sounding of an organ pipe, caused by a mechanical defect.

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The door slammed close, and that's all the reprieve Adler will get until they come back as he sat hunched over in the stiff metal chair with straps on his wrists and ankles. His head bowed to the ground, eyes in a daze as he attempted to recover his breath and make his ears stop ringing—only to spit.

The spit mixed in with the red that was already upon the dark dank room that had no light except for the sliver that came from under the only door to this small room. He knows there's blood around him, because that's all they've gotten out of him so far. Blood and spit and vomit. The cut to his head hurts like a bitch though, he believes it's a cut. They barely gave him any anesthetic during the procedure and afterwords, no thanks to Stitch no doubt.

He just hopes the shitty doctor at least cleaned it right. Infection would be a bad way to go.

Adler's eyes blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness once more. An action he's accustomed to by now due to all the time he's been here. How long?

Who fucking knows.

Frankly, he doesn't care either. All he knows the second one of Stitch's goons will make a mistake he'll grab that needle and stab them into the neck, choke the life out of them and feel in his hands as they go and to do the same to Stitch. Slow. Adler idly wonders if he can see the life go out of someone who has a blind eye.

He'll just put his focus on the one Stitch has left. Maybe, he can have Stitch's other eye as well. Cut it open and out, the hold of his knife not slipping no matter how much blood and red will spurt out in him and his face. He can practically hear the Russian curse in his mind at the audacity, the sick and twisted ness of it to steal his sight fully and the last thing he saw was Russell Adler over him.

Adler's lips twitched as he released a short breath that was equal to a chuckle for now. He winced but he took a steadying breath as his head stayed bowed, closing his eyes and unintentionally focusing on the way the faucet dropped a single drop of water. It echoing around him within the silence.

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

Adler shifted his feet as best he could in the restraints, jaw ticking twice before he opened his eyes again.

Damn Red's know how to torture, he thought, licking his dry parched lips that are barely given respite to keep him dehydrated. Instead connected to the IV next to him for a small bout of fluids that Adler knows isn't enough because he still feels weak. He might fall over if he stood too quick if he did get out of the restraints. But he couldn't think much on that. Just on the water. The faucet. It dripped. It dropped. As it always has been. Adler's ears began to ring as he slightly turned his neck towards the sound. The drip. The drop. It would pause. For one, two, three, four second—this is getting long—Drop—and there it is again. Fucking waiting for when it drops and going mad when it takes too long.

At least they haven't done the Chinese water torture again. Adler thought he was going insane.

The bucket over his head, a drop coming on his face, his head, his shoulder—all random and always cold. The room here is already fucking freezing just like their homeland but somehow the water was colder. And it dripped. And it dropped. The coldness jarring, hitting his skin due to him only having a dirty browned with blood wife beater, his pants being the warmest thing on his body. And the waiting for it to happen again. Will he get to recover for a bit longer before it fell on him again? Will it miss and hit the floor? Why is he still fucking thinking about it?

Drop.

Drop.

Drop.

His ears are still ringing. Adler clenched his teeth, slightly moving his neck to see if he can move it back to lean against the back of the chair. Only for a pulse of pain to come down from his neck down to his toes and making him hiss. He stayed with his head bowed, frustrated. The ears ringing turning louder along with the drops. Incessant and high.

Drop.

. . .

Drop.

. . .

Drip.

"Fucking hell. . ." He grunted out, voice in a rasp from too much use and throat begging him to shut up to heal. Adler didn't think his voice could turn more like gravel due to his smoking but he should learn to not get surprised at this point. Surprises are a guarantee in his line of work. His hands shook under the straps, but it wasn't due to the cold. "I need a smoke. . ."

Drip.

.       .       .

Drop.

.      .      .

Drip.

.             .            .

His ears perked just as they rang louder, waiting for the faucet to release with anticipation that he can't stop—

"You need much more than that."

Adler whipped his head up, neck pulsing in protest as his eyes whipped around, narrowed and squinting as they were. He didn't hear the door open. He turned his gaze towards the closed iron door, the white fluorescent light giving him some coming through the bottom onto the floor to highlight the red and browning floor by him.

Nothing.

Must've been voices being carried somehow through the vents. Their hideout must be ancient.

"Ignoring me are you? Not surprising. Best to hide me away and never look back."

The voice was closer now, Adler turned his eyes, squinting to try to see, try to find the voice that sounded darkly amused. And. . .  Adler's neck was still pulsing, but his adrenaline was hiding the pain due to his quick jerk of movement as he assessed only to see the room was as it was before—empty. . . familiar.

A foot stepped forward, the sound echoing all around Adler's head as he focused ahead, hands clenched around the armrests. The darkness made it obscure, but the light from the door to the floor, Adler can see black combat boots—camouflage pants—and his gaze continued to go up as the voice spoke once more.

"You look like shit. Never thought I would see the day," the voice was light, lithe and nonchalant but there is no mistaking the dark humor with that strange mix of accents. Adler's rounding of eyes moved to a black bomber jacket that had a high collar  and low dark gray turtleneck the didn't quite the neck. The mask did that job. Lips were up underneath the green mask, a twisted thing. "I don't know what to say. I guess," the figure's head tilted, an obnoxious one, "red isn't really your color. It clashes with the whole," the figure motioned his hand at him as if at a loss, "sleek style you got going on. But this rugged look, I think it fits. Wish I did it myself."

Bell.

Bell put their hands on their hips, looking around as they hummed mockingly. The sound irritating his ears as the man's eyes narrowed once more.

"This looks. . .well, I'll give you Americans this," Bell said in their mix of American and Russian accent as they stared at one spot in the room. Where Adler believes the faucet's location is. "Your torture rooms are much more cleaner and habitable than what you have."

Adler didn't answer, only stared at Bell for another moment before huffing in exasperation. As if bothered. Leaning against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

A hallucination. Fucking fantastic.

He'll just ignore it. It will eventually go away.

"You are ignoring me, aren't you?" Bell let out a huff of a laugh, short and it was gone. "Let me guess. 'I'm not real.' 'This is all in my head.' You think I'm nothing. Not worth your time. But you always thought that, didn't you?" He heard Bell shift, a sound of movement but Adler didn't pay much attention to it. He wishes the drop's were back. Less grating. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I taking away from your nap time? Sorry. Guess I should leave. You have so much time in your hands. Busy schedule. Let's see. . .it was Naga that was here before wasn't it?" Adler kept his eyes closed, ears straining to hear the drop's that were faint. If he focused on it, it could drown Bell out. "And after Naga, Stitch always comes back. He's always after Naga. How long will he take now, I wonder?" Bell's voice was inquisitive, but the mocking sort. It's as if they already knew the answer.

But Adler knows they don't. Because Bell is just a fabrication of his own mind, so if he doesn't know—it doesn't either.

Steps echoed around the room, in Adler's ears, moving closer but Adler ignored it despite how his chest pounded. His withdrawals. His withdrawals are causing this. Fuck his addiction. It's either that or he really does have an infection from the cut to his head.

Fucking Commies and their deplorable health care.

"You know what happens when Stitch comes, Adler." The hallucination's voice felt as if was right next to him, by the chair. Adler did not pay it any mind. "You look so interesting when he comes. Did I look like that when you did that to me?"

Silence.

"дерьмо," Bell cursed, unamused. "That bad, where you can't even talk? Cat got your tongue, Adler? Or. . . is it karma? I personally find this very funny. But I would like it if you would at least look at what you did. Or, are you a coward?"

Adler tilted his neck the opposite direction of where the hallucination was. Perhaps the drops could be heard like this easier.

"Coward than. That takes away another point off my very short list of what I admired about you. Can't even face me? I'm not even real right? What's got you all scared that I see your neck pulsing and your hands clenching and unclenching like that?"

Adler's eyes opened slightly, but he didn't turn towards the hallucination.

It laughed all the same. The sound made his ears ring and he gritted his teeth. He'll need to see a doctor after this—he might need surgery on his jaw and dental due to how much he's grounded his teeth.

"Ah, I hit you with your pride and you listen. Also not surprising. I know you best after all."

Adler's gaze flitted towards them, the hallucination's eyes seeming to brighten when his unamused baggy and red rimmed eyes met it.

"What's that for? Ah. Sore spot that the only one who knows you—all of you—is dead?" The hallucination nodded, consolingly. "I would be too. It's quite depressing actually. It's like you killed a part of you too, da?"

Adler looked at the hallucination, how the mask that was exactly as how he remembered it with it's tightly knitted and professional pattern and olive green color that looked black in this lighting. It hugged the hallucinations facial features, the only thing he could truly is the eyes due to the holes. The hallucinations hair hidden underneath the inconspicuous ski mask that the original owner would wear as a beanie when they were at the safehouse.

Him looking at it is giving him a headache.

He must've shown his irritation because the hallucination's eyes darkened and it felt as if, if possible, the room grew icy.

"Oh," it said, darkly. "You really think low of me. A tool barely worth your time. Tell me," the hallucination grew close, leaning towards Adler and his neck. Adler stiffened when he felt what felt like air on his neck. "What would the others see when Stitch is done with you?"

The door opened, a creak and the light burned Adler's eyes as he quickly closed them as he muttered a curse. A clatter being heard, and squeaky wheels that Adler has learned to be a sick form of a med cart came through. Adler felt a hand fist his hair harshly, pulling strands, forcing him to look up and meet one blind scarred eye and a clear sadistic hazel one.

"Let's see how these numbers treat you, Adler. But first," someone behind Stitch handed the hooded man a needle to his open palm. Adler's pained scowl and squinted eyes looked at the liquid of the needle that spurted out, hitting his chest on purpose as Stitch jerked his head to the side to fully bare his neck. "Let's have some fun."

As Adler grunted and shouted and yelled till his voice grew hoarser than it already was, chords feeling like they were ripped apart, Adler could see with them added light in front of him—a squatting and relaxed Bell with a hand to their chin upon the floor.

They watched as he squirmed.

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Drip.

.           .          .

Drop.

.    .    .

Drip.

.           

             .

                        Drop.

Adler's head pulsed, aching. Temples throbbing as his ears strained to hear when the next will fall. It's taking too long. Fuck. He can't because of the loud ringing in his ears. Stitch did a number on him last time he was here.

How long it's been, again, Adler doesn't know. Doesn't care.

He knows his team will come eventually. Before whatever Stitch has planned will come to fruition. Which it won't. He'll fucking make sure of it. He'll clean out this whole building if he has to alone. Stitch's game of playing with his head will fail just like everything else does for Red's.

Drop.

Adler released a quick rush of breath at the sound that finally came. Tilting his head and straining to hear the next one.

But his fucking ears.

"Naga," Adler spat the man's name like a curse. Once he's done with Stitch, he'll come for that arrogant shit next.

A step was heard, Adler turning towards it only to see the hallucination again. All crossed arms and a tilted head as it stood over him.

"That's not my name." It tilted it's head more, lips frowning in thought under the mask. "Than again, I don't quite remember the name. At all. You did a good job with that. I only go by the one now. So," it fixed it's head, staring him down. "You going to talk? Or to hide?"

Adler huffed out his nose, in turn making the some additional blood come out his nose—it mixing with liquid and the dry little brown ashes raining upon his shirt some. It made him irritated enough to speak even if his gaze turned away.

"You're not real," he said lowly, throatily. It's been a long time since this came back. He was hoping it was a one time event. He hopes for too much. Hudson will critique his optimism here. "Leave, ya little shit."

"Oh! And what have you done to Russell Adler?" The hallucination asked in mock surprise as they out a hand to where their mouth was. Bending their upper body down to look up at his facial expression that was tense and he just wanted the damn thing to leave. Where are those fucking drops? "I didn't think they caught Frank Woods. Not like a man like that one will get caught. He's not stupid enough to go into a known ambush with a light team."

Adler's head whipped towards the hallucination, anger spiking at their words and their mere presence.

"You are nothing. A figment of me being in this place, you—" Adler stopped, closing his mouth shut.

He's talking out loud and he doesn't know if there's mic's in here. The thought of Stitch watching him talk to nothing and how amused the Russian Commie would be makes rage cool in his gut—which only made his head pulse and throb more in turn. Adler closing his eyes at the pain.

That, or Stitch is adding something else in those needles to keep making the hallucinations come. Because nicotine withdrawals surely won't do this? And his infection has to be gone. He would've died if it wasn't. But. . .they're probably only pushing the necessary medicine and fluids —the littlest amount he may need to keep him alive but not healthy and moving.

I'm going to kill him, Adler swore with electric fire in his eyes and his chest no matter how his head felt like it would burst. He'll die screaming.

The hallucination didn't seem to be aware of his intense animosity, only shook their head at him.

"I'm nothing? And what does that make you, Adler? You'll be a pawn in Stitch's game—"

The mere words made Adler snap.

"Shut the fuck up!" The hallucination quieted as Adler strained against his restraints, eyes in a heated glare and expression that as he breathed heavily. He has to control himself—just focus on the drops—"That man will have to do a lot more than this if he expects for me to be brainwashed. The others will come soon. You're not even real."

The hallucination stared, cocking their head in curiosity as Adler's chest heaved up and down. Him calming with deep breaths and turning his head away. The drops. Just focus on the drops.

Drip.

.

.

           .    Drop .   .     .

Drop.      .

.      Drip.

"Not real?" The hallucination repeated, almost to themselves in it's softness before straightening their neck. "Look at me and the light under the door." He heard their steps shift, and shuffle, the sound grating his ears due to how loud they were. For a hallucination that was a spy, they were doing a horrible job at it. He didn't look though, keeping his head turned away. "Look at me, Adler. At least do the courtesy of that again. With no weapon this time."

He was a stubborn man—and he'll forever be known for it. So he did not turn. But he did take note the room got dark which made him curious.

He turned his gaze and froze.

The light, the little light from underneath the door that showcased the room—was shadowed and hidden due to a pair of feet and legs being in front of said door.

Adler's head pounded.

"Believe now? I am no mere hallucination, Adler. I wouldn't be able to block the light that you love to have. Stitch is kind in giving that to you at least." Adler's thoughts were being consumed with excuses, with how hallucinations could make anything seem real including this—but they were escaping him despite the knowledge because this should be impossible. "You were kind too it seems. You gave me the light from the projector and the T.V.'s. . . even now I can hear the gunfire of a place I've never been."

Adler can hear it too. The shots, and with it, them meeting bodies as they fell with a thunk. Of a pained grunt and the last short breath one releases as if it was suddenly stolen.

A muscle in his jaw moved as Adler looked down upon the ground.

"You never knew how it actually was," Adler said quietly. Perhaps if he barely moved his lips and spoke softly, the mic's that might be here won't catch his words. "You don't know how it was."

Any possible explanation of hallucination went away, as a cold—cold, icy, it hurts—grip was in the junction of his jaw and Bell was in front of him—all rage and tense shoulders as Adler eyes widened.

"And who's fault is that?!" Bell shook his jaw in their grip and Adler can do nothing as coldness swept through him, goosebumps coming as breath escaped him. "You gave me your nightmares and your guilt and everything that war came with you when you went home! To your precious country!" You spat the word country as if was venom. "A country that hates your war and hated all of you—tell me, was everything worth it?"

Adler glared.

"I don't ever regret." Bell laughed in a loud mix of exasperation and disbelief. Adler could feel their breath even through their mask. He shouldn't feel it at all. "So, humor me. What are you?"

Bell, the hallucination, scoffed as they released him. But they didn't move. Still close with their frigid aura that makes Adler lean away from them to possibly get some space and warmth back.

"A man like you doesn't regret. You mustn't. Because than you'll stay up for far longer than you need to be when all your war crimes catch up with you. In the dead of night. Alone." Bell's eyes moved from his face towards assessing his injuries all around, his restraints. The I.V. Stand. "No. . .with war, you can't carry too much guilt. Or else it'll carry you till you reach a bridge and the weight is heavy and you will fall." Bell raised a hand as if to touch his I.V. site but paused above it, before putting it down on the armrest where his arm wasn't touching them. "You're not the only one who's done bloody messes in Vietnam. All countries are guilty. South Korea still hasn't admitted to what the troops did to the women—no support for the Lai Dai Han children from them. And, you didn't massacre civilians with a gun to your hand and spraying everywhere. You are no saint, a monster, but you have limits."

"This is all very nice," he said lowly, sarcastically. "But you still didn't answer my question."

Bell paused once, before gripping his forearm with the IV site tightly. Adler winced. A shudder and choked out gasp coming out of him as Bell's equally cold eyes stared up at him.

"Always impatient. Even when you made me run through scenarios after sticking multiple needles to my eye. You Americans should learn patience, perhaps if you waited for reinforcements Adler—you would have Stitch instead of him having you."

Adler felt his temper flare just as his temple felt a shot of pain. At his angered look, you released a sigh of disappointment, your eyes still maintaining it's chilly nature just like how you seem to release from your body(?).

"We're speaking in circles," Bell stood fully, turning towards the door until they faced it and turned their head towards his bewildered form. "I can't work with you like this. You're always impossible, even now. If you don't talk as you are now, you'll regret it later. When Stitch makes you who he wants to."

"Stitch," he spat, "won't make me anything."

Bell threw him a look of what he could only see as pity.

"That's what I thought with you," they admit quietly, "and I didn't talk for you either."

Bell knocked on the door and just like that—it was Stitch again with his cart of needles and men with false medicine and moldy bread for sustenance. Adler's body stiffened immediately at Kuzmin's presence, tensing more as the Russian drew closer and waved a hand with a needle playfully with eyes creased above his gas mask to show he was grinning. Bell still stood by the door as Adler clenched his fists when they began to put leads on his temples once more, hand to it as they watched blankly. Uncaringly. Like he was nothing.

"Call for me when you decide you need me. Or don't. You never truly trusted me."

Bell left the room before Adler's parted lips would call them out to wait, only to clench tight and press as shocks went through as Stitch's hand replaced where yours was—at his jaw and holding and able to feel how erratic his pulse was. His vision blurring and turning and moving as redness seemed to appear in and out.

You left like he was nothing.

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It's been weeks.

Adler is sure of that. It's been longer than a few days—both since he's been here and the last he saw of Bell.

Bell, who always seems to leave him to the wolves when Kuzmin comes. Even if he's only seen them twice—he wants them back. Because the drops aren't enough anymore—the drips, the dips, the drops, over and over in a pattern he can't understand but he must because the sound is maddening and his ears ring and ring and ring—

Bell has been the only one he could speak without any true chance of receiving pain or taunts. Their words are harsh, but they are fair. Honest. Adler always appreciated that part of them when they were alive.

Before I shot them in that cliff that is, he corrected tiredly as he sat hunched over in the chair. Muscles strained and long sore from the constant tension in every part of him. He does not know where his injuries end and begin. They've cut him open more than once—more than twice—after that—it blurs. Solovetsky. . .we made a pretty good team.

It's something Adler didn't want to outwardly admit; not even in the forefront of his thoughts. No matter how true they were—he would push them down. Anything related to Bell, he would push down during that whole mission and afterwords. Because  admitting would start a pattern.

And Adler despises patterns. One's that aren't easily able to read through like a file or a report or a dossier for a mission. No. The patterns he loathes are far more complicated and he already deals with complicated, so best to push it down and throw it away.

Just like how he threw Bell's body away over the cliff.

               Drip.

Dip.

.     .     .     Drop.

Drip. . .

Drip.

Drop.

His ears ring and rung and ting and he hates the drops. He hates the drops. More than patterns, more than anything.

His hands clenched around the armrest, cold sweat on his back to add to all the sweat stains already on his beaten side beater. Mixing with the the brownish red, similar to how his pants were. The bandage around his head was tighter than usual—it had to be the fucking reason why his ears were so loud.

Drop.

.           .

                            Drop.

      Drip.                     .                    .                .

.                  .               .

Dip.                        .           .       Drip .        .

     .             .              .            .         .

Drop—

Adler let out a grunt of frustration, slamming his head against the back of the chair.

Too much time has passed. With everything. It's been some time since Stitch or any of his men came by. They're making him sit and wait. Another torture tactic that he would normally admire but it only makes his irritation and impatience grow for something to happen. Anything.

And fuck—what's taking Hudson and them so long? Adler clenched his jaw, tight along with his eyes to try to drown away the drops and the rings and instead make his thoughts loud. They can't fucking figure out where I've gone by now? Fooled by Nova 6 like simpletons and can't find my location with simple decryption skills. They can't do anything without me having to be there and guide their hands like they're children.

Adler didn't focus on how if someone was alive, he probably wouldn't be in this mess. If someone was alive—they would've found him quicker than anyone thanks to the skill set they achieved themselves and he used for his own gain until he saw no more point.

Their voice echoed around his head, up and down and around his mind as if disembodied and everywhere at once.

"Call for me."

Adler caved.

"Bell."

And there they appeared, a step in front of the other in front of him until he could clearly see them in the darkness with little light with hands in their jacket pockets and a tilted head.

"Finally," they said, making a show of rubbing their eyes as if sleepy. "You took forever, you stubborn ox. ты будешь упрям на собственных похоронах. I mean, you didn't even make a funeral for me. So who am I kidding? Could've thrown me some flowers at least and—" they paused as they looked at Adler's subtly victorious expression. Their face twisted into one where one might make after smelling something unpleasant. "I'm not dealing with you like this. I already dealt with it before. Goodbye—"

"Thank you for coming," Adler says lowly and they whip their heads towards him, disbelief overcoming their features. It almost made an amused smile come but his mouth instead twitched. "It's been some time." Adler's pride at having his voice steady despite everything and his desperation should be given a reward. But he knows Bell, and the old true one always enjoyed praise no matter how slight.

This one is the same. For it turned back towards him but still with an open frown underneath their mask before scoffing.

"You can't fool me, Adler. You forget. I know you quite well. It's one of the reasons you killed me, didn't you?" Bell's voice lowered throughout each word, the last being accusatory as they stood above his sitting form even though they were still feet away.

Adler stiffened, that's all Bell needed as they scoffed again and looked around in disinterest—the corner to where the faucet was—that damn sink with the drip's and the drop's and it's becoming prominent now with the silence—the silence that's only filled with water—

"I wanted to see you," Adler admits in a rushed breath—filling the silence as Bell looked towards him. Looking as if their brows rose under their mask due to how their eyes seemed to slightly round.

Adler licked his chapped lips, looking away and cursing.

"Ask."

Adler's eyes darted up, Bell's eyes still away from him and now just above his head. Seeming to stare at something that he couldn't see.

When he kept silent, they turned their eyes back towards him—connecting. His hands clenched around the armrest.

"You have questions. Ask." Adler stared. "Tsk. If you're going to act like this, I might as well leave again. You always will be an odd man."

"What are you?" He decided to finally ask, the most important one. Because he cannot rest till he knows. How far did his mind deteriorate to have them show up, whatever they are? Because a touch so cold shouldn't be from a mere hallucination. "If you aren't a hallucination, than what?"

"You're really asking that?" Bell asked, clear judgement in their voice and just like that Adler was back to frustrated. But at least it wasn't about water. His ears rang. His vision blurring and reddening. "Why should I have to explain? What do you think I am?"

"Thought I was free to ask whatever I wish," Adler tensely replied.

Bell snorted.

"You aren't one for stupid questions though. Although. . . I believe you did ask a few when you were interrogating me." Bell grinned smugly underneath their mask, hand to their chin. "Asking if I wanted a cigarette I believe. What kind of fucking question was that? Of course I wanted one. Didn't give it to me even though you were the one that asked. God. You were a piece of shit. Still are."

Bell didn't leave. Despite their harsh words.

They're a lot like Woods in that regard. No wonder they got along well.

They never were like this to him though. Killing someone brings some level of spite, Adler imagines.

Adler's brows furrowed as he faced Bell.

"You're not a ghost."

Bell made a motion with their mouth under the mask. He thinks their brow rose.

"Because that would mean admitting other ghosts you've seen might be real."

"If you were one, why you?"

Bell's expression darkened as their body tensed.

"You really are a piece of shit."

"It's an innocent question," he calmly pointed out. It seems to only make Bell angrier, and with it, the coldness came.

"You're really asking me that? What are you on—" Bell paused, staring over his shoulder at his IV stand. Adler craned his neck to see they were looking at an IV bag, them drawing closer and bringing their icy chill that made his skin raise as they stood next to him. "Hm. . .they rose it on you."

He tensed along with the feeling of his gut falling.

"What?"

Bell turned their head towards him, staring down at him before shrugging and stepping away from the IV stand. They didn't move away from him.

"I'm not a ghost. You don't believe in them."

"Than?"

Bell shrugged lightly, moving to scratch the back of their ski mask covered head.

"Whatever you want me to be. What makes you sleep at night."

"Sounds like you hate that, kid."

Bell chuckled humorlessly, dryly. A dark grin on their lips that for some reason, did not make Adler wants to press against the seat.

"Oh, I hate a lot of things. You included."

Adler nodded.

Bell is always honest and he expected as much. He's being tortured, not turning delusional. It would be foolish to not hate one's killer—no matter what happened before.

Bell stared as he stayed silent, notably duller blue eyes deep in thought as he stared down at his lap before craning his neck up back towards them.

"I want you take off your mask."

"That's not wise,"Bell warned, hand going to their high collar of their bomb leather jacket instead. Almost considering it despite the words with an odd tone. Excited. Apprehensive. Even. "You will have to face what you want to hide from."

" I don't hide, Bell." He said sharply.

Bell shrugged as if to say "his funeral", and than Bell grabbed the end of their mask from their neck and slowly lifted.

What hit immediately was the smell, Adler noted as his stomach churned as he watched with focused eyes as when the mask moved—rotting flesh seemed to attach from the neck. Red epidermis still only your neck with your skin tone in the mix—the scent of saltwater and purged blood and dead flesh hitting him all at once. Once they reached their chin and mouth, Bell's lips looks hardly attached—more teeth than skin as they continued with their nose that was more two open holes than a concrete shape.

The mask was gone, and all that faced him with a smile that was all teeth and skin peeling from their head that had a hole in the middle that oozed ocean water and hair wet and soaked as if they took a swim.

It's what they would like if their body was found from the Arctic sea.

His head was being hammered and the red of their skin looked like it was moving. Something popping out towards him and making him jerk back into his seat only for nothing to be on him. Bell tilted their muscled more than skin head, stray piece of skin flapping against their cheek.

"Stitch is getting to you. What do you see?"

Adler hunched over, head facing Bell's shoes as he purged and threw up over his shoes and Bell's. His throat stung in protest at the abuse, the acid stuck in it as well as his tongue as he spat—sweat going down his temple and neck as his chest heaved.

His vision blurred as exhaustion overcame him, the redness spreading more the more he closed his eyes until instead of black—it was red.

"Guilt," he croaked.

The red stuttered behind his lids as if in a glitch.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

Bell came and went, it depended. Adler distantly took note they came the most after Stitch did his work on him—hands gripping and roughly pulling his hair up or hand tight against his throat and making his vision blur as the Russian choked him until the last second where Adler saw stars. Releasing him and watching in rapt attention as Adler took back air greedily as Adler's eyes slitted towards the bald Russian.

Kuzmin made sure each time he saw that, to double the charge on the leads on his head.

Adler would see Bell sometimes when that would happen too. Standing behind Stitch and his men and instead at the dark spot opposite him where they always came through. Mask always on and only watching as his mind basically got fucking electrocuted.

He knew they couldn't do anything—whatever they were—they can't stop this. No one can.

But Bell's eyes, it haunts him in his sleep when Kuzmin isn't there. Or Naga.

They stared as if through him as his body shook and shuddered as lightning went through his veins, the sharp jerk of his body the thunder. Blankly and eyes seeming to be hidden—assessing. Almost as if in morbid curiosity, with how they would cock their head and just stared. Than a hand to their masked chin, almost in thought before he would see it.

Pity.

He would spit at those whoever looked at him like that when he first came home from Vietnam—but he'll accept it from Bell.

Sometimes, he wonders if Bell does that as if to copy him. He recalls he did that a lot with them, in the interrogation room, when it was just them two. As if he was observing how an ant can possibly withstand itself without a guiding hand—a tool just needing a little shining.

No.

He can't fault Bell at all.

Besides, when it wasn't pity, Adler recognizes the handful of times something else is in Bell's eyes. His hands aren't the best to count with right now, abused as they are, Kuzmin being kind enough early on to only take away the nail of his pinky and ring finger of his left hand—could've been worse. Adler always knows worst. But in those handful of times, he can spot the spark of sympathy. Of sadness.

He asked them about it once, as they sat by his chair and leaned their head against the armrest on his side. This was before either Naga or Stitch came—it was quiet in the way he liked—Bell speaking to erase the drops and the ringing when he would ask questions. It would take away the redness too at times that was overtaking his vision.

They huffed, as if he asked a ridiculous question.

"You and your hiding. Why should I need to explain something you should already know, Adler?"

He didn't ask again. But he still doesn't think it was ridiculous. Bell was always childish, in everything. Before and after. With cigarette's they don't smoke anymore and their books they would read and the puzzles they would solve. All cockiness and exuberance one may have a hard time to keep up. But a loyalty hard to find.

"Do you regret being truthful to us?" He asked once, voice in a harsh rasp where he had a hard time getting the words out. Bell would tell him to save his strength but he can't stand the quiet—Bell only talks if he asks. Kuzmin was creative today when it came to what he would do. Making him say a number and maybe the shock will stop, and he'll get a drag of a cigarette as a reward. Adler is embarrassed to say he said a few. "You could've said any other place. . .besides Solovetsky."

Bell looked at him, stopping from their pacing position upon the stained ground and in turn stopping their steps that bounced around his mind as if he was in a concert. Brows furrowed under their mask—he could tell better now, even in the dark. He is still observant and a good spy no matter what someone will do to him.

They opened their mouth, than paused, seeming to think better of it before their eyes looked down.

"You think I regret saving millions of people?"

"Not what I'm asking."

"I know what you're asking," Bell snapped up towards him before looking back down again and muttering an apology. Interesting, he noted. "No. Despite everything, there's only one thing I regret."

"And what's that?"

Bell swallowed, visibly and Adler even heard it as his brow rose when Bell's head did. Facing him.

"You."

Adler didn't ask any more questions, he instead let the drops gather and the ringing to be incessant.

Let Bell think what they want. He doesn't hide.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

Ice. Ice was what he felt and all he felt as Bell had their hand's on him—Kuzmin's touch and torture fresh and Adler wants it gone. No matter what.

He wants that bald fucker far and away from him. All Adler sees in the corner of his vision, is red glitching spots, each time he turned towards where he saw it—it would disappear. Gone. No matter how quick his gaze moves, it skitters and disappears, teasing and playing with him as it moved and hid from him. Yet towards him.

Bell's hands rubbed his arms, making the hair on his skin raise and shudder. Bell pulling back at it but Adler shook his head.

"No. Stay. Anything is better than that. . ."

Bell placed a finger upon his skin, but didn't press as they looked at Adler's side profile. They were on his his good side.

"You know you don't control me anymore, yes? I don't have to listen to your commands."

Adler released a short and dry huff of a laugh before glancing at them with a wince he didn't hold back. Why bother since it's just the two of them. There's no point. Just like he long didn't care if there were microphones here or not.

"Control is an illusion," Adler quoted with a an iota of humored eyes towards the blinking Bell. "Isn't that a quote you shot at me once? Back at the safehouse?"

Bell let out a breath through their nose.

"A lot of good that quote did for me. You were probably laughing on the inside cause you're an asshole."

"No," he said, than, "well, it was ironic."

Bell shot him a heated glare.

"You'll always be the worst." Adler's lips moved, a shadow of a smirk. "This whole situation is ironic, you ever thought of that?"

Adler's lips flattened as he moved his head away from them. The red shuffled away.

"It hasn't escaped my knowledge, no. I'm growing insane, not stupid."

"You think you're going insane?"

Adler turned back towards Bell, the red at the ends of his vision ebbed and flowed for a moment before settling. Adler didn't turn to look to try to chase it. The red did seem to encircle around Bell however, their squatted figure by his side with their icy touch. One stray red shape jumped towards them, being on their mask for a moment before it jumped back as they waited.

He knows what this whole situation is. It's the world's idea of a funny joke—that he got got. "Irony is Fate's most common figure of speech," he heard someone say once. It might've been Bell—they really loved their books just like they loved their pictures and that camera despite the hesitation to go in the Red Room. The need for them to create memories with shiny sheets of paper because they had none did not escape him. It's why he allowed them—them and their little innocent pictures of everyone. Of everything.

They never took a picture of themselves though.

He would not have allowed it if they did. Would've burned all evidence of their existence with his lighter, watching the smoke of their life go up and away. Withering and gone.

Adler felt a tingle to his foot, the one he used to kick them off the cliff.

He didn't look when their body cracked against the cliff's edge, bones breaking and additional blood streaming with each thunk as they hit the cliff until one final crack against the rocky buff's below until the ocean swallowed them. As if they were never there.

As if they were never anywhere.

He spoke a name, Bell tilted their head slightly in confusion by his side.

"Your name," he answered their silent question as they blinked, their watchful eyes focusing on him intently. It looked like when they were both on the cliff. Adler kept his eyes on them even as he shifted in his seat. "That's all you gave us. You found it rude we were just calling you a Red or a Commie, or 'you'. That's all the information you gave to us. Besides that you were worse than me when it came to a smoke." His tone turned amused at the end as Bell looked to the side in thought.

After a few seconds, they turned back their gaze on him—an interesting smile playing on their lips as their eyes appeared wry.

"It doesn't feel like anything. It doesn't sound like my name anymore." Adler nodded subtly as if he understood. "Just call me Bell. It has a nice ring to it doesn't it?" Their smile and eyes flashed with dark humor—what Adler has seen as them coping. Better that than their anger—so he took the jab. His ears did ring when they said that. "It'll be better than whatever Stitch has for you, I'm sure. What do you think your new name will be?"

The ringing grew louder and higher, it almost drowned your words as his expression tightened.

"Not a good joke, Bell."

"Good thing I wasn't," they easily quipped, their hands now back on him fully, rubbing up and down against his forearm as their touch was frostbite inducing. He did his best to hide a shudder. "The faster you accept, the easier it will be. I'm sure you told me the same. In the lab. Was the lab colder than here? I can't tell."

Adler stayed silent—he did not know what to say. Denial of what's happening will do nothing. He knows his mind is cracking. And what they're doing when they put leads on his head and body, it's blurring together just as Kuzmin's words does when it happens. The red would spread and the shapes become clearer—turning into d̸̘͘ì̴̧g̸̨̑ḯ̴̻t̶̜͝s̶̰̅ and he felt himself moving his lips in quick mutters as the electric shock moved from his head to the tip of his fingers and down to his toes.  His mind full when they take it out, he can barely recall what he himself was saying with his own mouth.

He's on the precipice. The in between of two sides. Purgatory of his identity—Russell Adler, America's Monster and whatever he's becoming when they put the leads, Kuzmin's Pawn.

The resounding sonorous sounds almost felt like his ears were going to split open.

Drip.

Not the fucking drops, Adler felt his throat tighten as if suffocating and he wanted to curse as his hands shook and clenched and he shifted.

"You know," Bell, Bell, thankfully began. The drops and ringing fading in the background, as they put a hand atop of his, squeezing. Adler started and turned towards them at the touch but they were staring at their hands—their's atop of his. His hands stilled. "What you said earlier, about the smoking, it explains a lot. I remember asking for a cigarette but that's it from before really."

Adler stared in silent question so they continued, fingers playing with his. Gentle and assessing, as if they've never seen another's hands before.

"I'm sure you saw. Your job was to watch me, even though I didn't know it. How I watched you smoke, when you put your cigarette in your mouth, it's like you were hypnotizing me. I would stare at the smoke that came out your lips as if they were clouds—that's how amazing it looked to me." Bell paused their movement, eyes darting up to his. "I looked up to you. I just wanted to be by your side. I would've followed you anywhere."

"I know," he said in a breath, soft.

Bell smiled sadly under their mask.

"I know you know."

"I know." He said again, tired eyes on them. His throat felt tight again, for a different reason.

"You knew you mean," Bell corrected. They raised their other hand, laying on his scarred cheek, thumbing and tracing one. All. Adler's breath hitched as they did. They're so fucking cold, he rationalized. "I wanted to do this too. I wanted a lot of things. You wanted something too, didn't you? Рассел."

Adler's eyes turned half lidded as they thumbed the scar at his chin.

"You knew too much." Bell didn't stop their touch, only nodded as their touch was felt all around him. Their hands on his—his face. "You knew me too well. There were missions that had to be stayed hidden. You could've said something by mistake. You also knew about MK-Ultra when it's supposed to be classified, about MI6's involvement with it. About the nukes." He was talking too much, practically babbling with all the reasons he knew were fact. "Bell, you. . .you became something bigger."

"So you had to kill me for it," they said calmly, as if their body wasn't deep in the sea and being eaten by fish—the fish's teeth digging into those eyes of yours. "It's not like I don't understand. I knew the moment we were on that cliff. Shame for me I missed my shot."

Adler's mouth parted just as their thumb grazed the scar on his lips, his heart thundering and at his throat.

"You missed on purpose. You had the same shot I had, you changed the direction at the last second." They only hummed, their masked head drawing closer just as the red seemed to swim. He continued, voice a cracking thing. "Why?"

Bell's eyes met his, the ones that haunt him, will forever haunt him. They crinkled under the mask.

"You hide still," they said. "The same reason you killed me while looking but couldn't when you disposed my body."

"Monster's don't hide."

"No. But they don't feel lonely either. Alone yes. But not lonely."

Adler turned his head away, bowing and staring at his lap. His hands shook just as his shoulders did. They must've had the bucket over him without realizing, because he felt a drop go down his face as his body shook.

"I won't leave you, Adler." Bell swears with a strength he doesn't have, with the exuberance they always had. "Not now or ever. I'll be with you when they come. And when you become someone else." Their arm went around his shoulders, in a semblance of a hug. He shook harder due to the cold. "You won't feel that again."

Bell kept their promise, staying when Kuzmin did his business. Not far and ahead where they were but next to his side, even as his body shook with pain, their hands stayed on his shoulders or his hands. Their eyes didn't leave him either, staring.

When Kuzmin left, Adler clenched his hand around theirs, his neck tilted down due to exhaustion as red digits jumped at him and away.

"C-Call," his throat pulsed at him in pain as he coughed harshly, blood sputtering out his mouth as a result from misuse. "C...call m-me Russell."

Bell squatted by him, hand moving to his scarred cheek, his neck moving into their icy touch. They smiled.

"Of course, Russ. Like old times. Da?"

They knew like he did there were no old times, not with him. Only parts that were real were in the safehouse. They clung to Vietnam all the same, just as his hand clung to their's.

Another part of Bell that Adler knew—they were just as monstrous as him. And monsters, are meant to be alone.

Adler saw himself over the cliff, back towards the direction of where Bell fell. Head down and gloved hands clenching as the arctic air he praised before about being refreshing cut his cheeks. Only for him to raise his head  and walk away with not even a word of additional farewell.

Kill the monster before it eats you.

The red glitches around his vision and around Bell, skittering and shuffling and zooming up and down and towards and away.

One was the number 1̸̣̯̓6̴̩͆̈. . .another was

2̸̪̲̃͜͜͝1̷̦͚̯̭̂̚. . .

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

There was a change today.

Naga came, and with it the pain, but he turned on all the lights of the room. Adler's eyes burned as he quickly blinked, the red digits behind his eyes even when closed. Bell looked like they were scrolling under their mask from all the light too as they stood a little away from him, as Naga than called for others and a gurney came.

Naga unstrapped his weakened wrists and ankles along with others, a warning if he did anything he will pay dearly. As they moved him, his gaze turned to where Bell was, them shrugging at him. They don't know either. They always seem to know.

When they were about to place him stop the gurney, practically dragging him due to how weak he was from lack of moving and nutrition, he turned to where he knew the faucet was. Where he heard it, behind him in the corner.

That's one thing he won't miss. Those fucking annoying drops.

His eyes squinted at the direction, confusion rising as his heart seemed to pause. The red  warbled in his vision, as if shaking in laughter.

It's not there.

"Hey," he croaked at Naga, burning curiosity digging at him as the man didn't even grunt in acknowledgment as they began to strap him in the gurney. Adler cleared his throat. "Hey." He said again, this time Naga turning his head at him. Adler knew he was giving him attention despite those glasses he had on, darker than any aviator Adler personally owns. "When did you guys take away. . .the sink?"

Naga tilted his head as the other's looked at each other over him. Naga turned his head to look at the chair as Bell stood over his laid form on the gurney. Adler's brows furrowed when he spotted their look at him.

Naga laughed. A booming rough sound as the other's chuckled around him and Adler clenched his hands into fists against the straps.

"What's funny?"

Naga tilted his head down at him, than tapped his fingers against Adler's temples in mockery.

"Just to see America's Monster fallen so far." He pulled back his fingers than motioned his hand towards the corner. "There was never a sink there. Whatever you thought you heard, was all in your capitalist mind."

Adler's eyes rounded, darting towards where Bell was. Their eyes, their eyes, filled with pity.

It wasn't real, he realized panic rising. The drops, the drips were all in his head. A ringing started, high and loud and hammering in his ears. Nothing is real.

Drip.

.                         .                   Drip.                .

               Drop . 

Dip.      .      . Drop.            .                .                       

              Drip

The ringing grew louder and now that he concentrated, it sounded like chimes. The one he rang for Bell to be Bell.

His mouth felt dry and he felt air and he was shaking and he was realizing he was laughing. Full blown laughter and the laugh was the ringing, the chiming, the bell tolling.

Bell stared down at him with concern, he doesn't think he's laughed like this in front of them before. It seems the ringing and chiming was contagious because he spotted Bell smiling and heard their chuckle—it also sounding like a chime, more light and free.

Adler's laughter and ringing stuttered to a stop when Naga grabbed his jaw, tight and gloves cutting into Adler's skin.

"Oh, what a sight this is." Naga drew closer, Adler able to feel the man's hot breath on his face. Adler couldn't pull away. He would take Bell's icy ness over this any fucking day. "Stitch is going to love this. You've snapped. Hope you're ready," Naga took his hand away roughly, making Adler's head jerk as the gurney turned and began to move. "Your job is almost about to officially start, Cipher."

The red number 1̶̼̎1̸̛͔glitched towards his orbs.

Cipher.

The name hit his chest but he didn't fight it. His heart hit against his rib cage hard at that.

When his mind went under with the shocking leads, Kuzmin must've said this name. Over and over again. Until where his body and mind wouldn't jerk away from the foreign title and instead washed over him with familiarity instead.

Bile rose at the back of his throat at the mere thought.

The name made the numbers worse as they pushed him into the bright hall, hissing at the light and the red and the digits and the glitches and the stitches—

16̵̥̭͂̾ ̸̦̿̈5̸̞̟̃ ̴̦͎͠18̵̝̯̿ ̶̠̓͗ͅ1̶̻̍͒9̷̼̉ ̵͎̀̈́5̴̤̞̾͑ ̶̡͌2̶̙͗̾1̵̰͋ ̵͎̘̆̈1̴̳̫̑͐9̸̡͈́

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

"Stitch almost has you, Russell. Your time is coming to an end."

They were both in a room, the light more yellow and soft as he laid atop the gurney—which was hard but to him it was the best form of comfort he had for weeks. The straps gave him a bit more freedom as well, still tight, but at least is he has an itch to his hip or thigh he can move and extend his fingers to scratch at it. The leads were on him now, off they were, but the threat of them turning on at any point if someone came to the room was there. There was a medical curtain to cover his form to his left and there were medical machines all around that were aged but the only he could see was the IV stand by him and the machine that held the leads and was his bane of existence. The smell of the room being dust and stale with that hint of blood in the air.

His blue eyes squinted above him, eyes baggy and wrinkles all around his face, as if he aged ten years as he stared through the ceiling.

Bell was by his IV stand, looking around and sighing when he didn't answer before tilting their head.

"Your new name—Cipher. It just adds onto the irony doesn't it? Your name being a code when I was a decoder. It's a bit funny."

He sighed lowly, closing his eyes even if the redness chased him there too. Better the red than the drip's—the drop's echoing in his head if he or Bell didn't talk.

"It's not lost on me, Bell."

Bell hummed, growing closer and putting a hand near his arm on the gurney but not quite. He opened an eye towards their hand but than closed them once more.

"Cipher means a lot too. Not just a series of numbers. There's other definitions. Stitch really thought about your name." Bell almost sounded amused and impressed. "But you had a lot of thought to mine too. You didn't name me Bell just because you rang the bell at me. Bell's are important—in churches—to you American's and your liberty. You steal my freedom but I can represent yours."

He stayed silent. There's nothing to say. He always enjoyed being clever. Kuzmin seems to have the same habit.

"Do you know this method of brainwashing?" He instead asked, changing the subject a tad.

He felt Bell's eyes towards him, him still keeping his eyes closed. He should reserve his strength, what little he has. Kuzmin will come if he's already attached to this machine. It seems he will be for some time in the nearing and never ending future.

"I was close to Perseus. Right hand. Of course I knew this. But you're not really asking that, are you?" He felt Bell's touch on his jaw, firm and not harsh like Naga and Kuzmin, coaxing him to look at them which he did. Opening his eyes slightly to be met with their mask, their eyes, that bore into him and through him and inside and everywhere. "No. You're wondering if you let me live, if I stayed by you, if any of this would've happened. And even if you got captured, somehow even with me there, when you get released I would know how to rewire you back to Russell Adler. The one everyone knows. And the one I know will stay hidden like he wants. Except from me. You're wondering if you made a mistake. Did you?"

He stared up at them in answer, eyes mixed with exhaustion and sorrow and—yes, regret.

"I'm human, Bell," he admits quietly as he spoke with their hand still on him, the monster acquiesces. "Even I have some regrets."

I have more than I want to admit.

Their eyes shined in amusement, their thumb tracing the scar on his lips again. He shuddered.

"Done with hiding are you? You're scared. You're feeling Kuzmin in you."

"I'm tired," he corrects, but it's not sharp or snappish. When he spoke he felt your thumb for a moment between his scarred cracked lips. He shifted on the gurney as he swallowed dryly and met their eyes. The red stuttered around his vision. "And I don't want him anywhere near me. Just you."

Bell paused their hand on his face, eyes zeroing on him and all around his face, assessing.

"You don't know what you're asking. You know I'm not here."

"Than why do I feel you?"

Bell didn't answer only stared down at him, their lips doing a motion under the mask. It seems they were biting their lip. He doesn't know how because he saw himself they didn't have any. Their gaze moved away from his face and to his body, their eyes widening when they reached his pelvis.

"You saw me under the mask. You're not scared?"

"You never scared me, Bell. With or without what I did. You were. . ." He trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

Bell turned their eyes on him, the eyes that haunt, the eyes in his dreams, the eyes that always was in the back of his mind since Solovetsky.

"I was what?" Bell asked, accusing and voice raising with each question. "A tool? A dog? Your pet?"

His expression set, straightening as he stared up at them.

"More." He simply said, truthful and bare. "Always more."

Bell's breath hitched and it was a wondrous sound, it making him close his eyes with a near groan. He wants. He needs. He wants and needs something to ground him that wasn't pain.

He wants.

He whipped his eyes open when he felt weight atop his abdomen, finding Bell to be straddling atop him, their thighs on either side of him. They shifted atop him, their clothed core brushing his hardness as they settled atop him bringing a gasp to their lips and an open groan to his. He could reach his hands to touch their thighs so that's what he did, them putting a hand to his chest, that was still covered by his fitted wife beater with sweat and brownish blood stains.

He looks horrendous, all cuts upon his head and his body with an IV site still in his arm, he knows he does. Bell's eyes looked at him as if he still had his side swept hair, clean cut and his trusty shades on his eyes that he showed to them once—when it was just them two in the safehouse. He idly wonders if such an event was important to you, as his clear blue eyes took you in, on top of him.

Their hands moved, one atop where his heart thundered and the other to his scarred cheek as Bell looked in thought, in wonder, in awe.

"I can do something. But I can only do it a little." Their hand traced a scar from his stubbled chin to the one near his eye, a feathery trail that brought shivers more than due to their frigid touch. It only made him warm. Their eyes met his, and he could hear a distant chime when it did. "Do you trust me?"

The question brought a memory, a memory of them asking a similar question back in the safehouse, before the Lubyanka mission. Trust is a foreign yet complicated word for a man in this work. Trust one can do the job is easy, but trusting one with your life and having your back is another.

But, he was truthful than and he'll be truthful now.

"Yes." He stated, voice even.

They smiled under the mask, before reaching with the hand that was on his chest to their mask and lifting. The mask moving up to showcase a bare smooth neck, where he could spot their vein pulsing as if alive. The mask moving up, with nothing attached and no smell of rot or scene of flesh that flapped. Just a hint of They stopped right above their mouth, leaving the mask on to cover the top half of their face—their lips full and plump and pink and how they always looked before. Them even biting the inside of it sensually as they looked down at his awe struck expression.

"I can only do this. Is this. . .okay?"

He squeezed their thigh, rubbing it up and down at an awkward angle that will surely hurt him later but he doesn't care.

Scarred lips twitched upwards, a shadow, a hint, a crumple of a smile as he looked up at them. At their eyes.

"Perfect," he praised with a breath just like he knew they always liked. "Perfect, kid."

They visibly brightened, smiling wide as they let out a breathless giggle.

It chimes in his ears, all light and a tinkle and addicting.

They lowered their head, lips ghosting over his and hauntingly beautiful eyes on his lust ridden ones before they met.

It was like he thought it would be, if it ever happened if they were alive. Desperation moving their lips, hungry to devour the other and making sure they can both taste every part of the other. Their lips were icy and they tasted of salt, the different sort he imagines of what he tastes like.

He pulled their lip between his teeth in a nip and they answered in mind with a grind against him, making him release a grunt as he tightened his hold on their thighs as they began to do it again and again and again—stuttering breaths from them and him with groans and moans and chimes and he needs this. Needed this—all pleasure from them and this is all he needs forever, just them, only them and fuck the nicotine and fuck the world and fuck everyone else that isn't them. He would do everything for them. He made sure to say so through his mutters and his curses if it wasn't him saying their name while they did the same with their mixed accent, the way that he liked it.

Рассел.                          Рассел.

                Рассел .

     Рассел.                                             Рассел .

Рассел.                Рассел. 

                                                       Рассел

    Рассел.                      Рассел.

                      Р̴̭̖̰͇͇̓͘а̸̢͖̹͙̞̳͔͓̦̐̊̎̌̃̕с̵̨͉͖̣̬̻͎̔̓̎̾͊̎̐̔̕͜с̴̩͉̟̟̂͝е̸̻͈͕̲̜͈̦̒͆ л̶̨̛̟͇̮̫͈̮͑̾̚.

He felt his release through his pants as they had their own with a wondrous cry over him that he wants to hear again and again but he could settle with the sensual kiss to his scarred cheek—as if it wasn't covered by grime, sweat, and blood and as if they revered that part of him. Looking at him the same way as they sat atop him, his hands rubbing their thighs that were sadly covered by their tight camo pants.

If only the straps were looser—

Bell jolted on top of him, head darting up and facing the door and ice fell onto his body colder than anything Bell could do as it shut close.

"мой мой," Kuzmin tsked as he drew closer, cocking his head exaggeratedly and darkly until he stood over him. Bell getting off with a quick fix of their mask back down and stood on his other side of the gurney, across from where Kuzmin stood as the Russian stared at him with pleased hungry eyes. "You seem to have had fun. Good dream? You were calling a name quite loud." Kuzmin grabbed his jaw, tight and squeezing his cheeks as he turned his head towards the Russian. "Repeat it."

He answered with a glare, even as the Russian's nails dug into his cheek due to the man's fingerless gloves. It was when Kuzmin's hand moved towards the machine that connected the leads did he speak, voice weak to his own ears.

"Bell."

Kuzmin hummed, repeating the name as if in thought and loosening his hold. The American saw stars when pain shot to his cheek, the punch making the red pulse and thunder and the digits jump as Kuzmin grabbed his cheek harshly and cutting as his eyes narrowed at him.

"Don't you dare say that name again, you do not deserve to have them in your sick perversions." Kuzmin's eyes flashed, dangerous as he leaned over him. Bell only watching and staring above him as the numbers glitched forward and backward and forward and backward—

                                                          8̷̺̀ ̷̔ͅ

5̸̥͂̓ ̸̢͑                                           1̶͕͇̓̓8̸̱́͘ ̵̛̼

                         5̷̣̒͘

—"Do you even know their name? Their true one? The one you took away with your precious MK-Ultra? You don't do you? You wouldn't have bothered."

The machine turned on and his body shook as electricity pumped his veins instead of blood as he ground his teeth. Kuzmin by his ear as Bell watched wide eyed.

"Forget them, Cipher. You do not deserve them." Kuzmin spoke again, saying their name with rage filled despair and wanting but he could only see numbers and red as pain struck and hit and killed him. "Forget them."

                1̸̨͆6̴͈̅̚ ̴͈̓                   1̶̘̄̚1̸̱͍͗̅ ̷̘̌

                                                                   1̵͉͈͌͊ ̵͜͝9̸̨͕̃͠
̷͓̋
̵̩̫̀̚2̸͎̉͝1̷͉̐̓ͅ ̵͓̀                                           9̵̯̯̃̐ ̸̨̯͐͝

                         1̷̢̄̔9̷͚͇̽̉
̸̡̛͝
̴̨͖̾́            8̸̖̣̓̒ ̶͎̇̎                                                                    5̸̜͑̊ ̶̣̀

        1̷̯̒8̶̲̣̀ ̷͖̀͝

                      5̵̠͠

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

He can't.

Don't forget them.

Don't forget  Bell.

Don't.

☭ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ☭ ✪ ☭ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪ ☭ ✪ ✪  ☭ ✪ ☭ ✪ ☭

1̸̖̿̋ͅ6̷̱̈́͐̇ͅ ̴̳͋                                      5̷̧̰͑̈́ ̸̣͓͕́̍

                      1̷̧͙̽͊8̶̜͒
̴̬̤̯́͘
̵̯̉̾.                                                     1̷̘͔̂̈9̷̲̏͂ ̸̤̽̇5̷̫̅̈́ ̶̤̙̆2̷͕̩͊1̵̟̰͇͑̈́
̷̣̪̳̾
̸̢̠́̀͛.                   1̴̙͍̥͂̎̋9̴̨̽͒ ̴̰̿                                                   9̴̨͔̘̉̈́̈́ ̵̱̼͜͠

          1̴̬̀9̸̯͐
̸͈̓̏
̵̩̣͋           8̴̢̭͐̈́ ̴̥̞̭͆͛

                                           5̷̛̮͌͑

"You're going to be moved, Cipher."

He moved his head in the gurney towards where Kuzmin leaned against a desk with crossed arms, gas mask ever present on the Russian's face and accent forever thick. At his awaiting look, Kuzmin continued.

"Well, you'll stay here. I'm taking others with me but there will be others to make sure you behave and stay. You have American friends wanting you back after all." Kuzmin did a half shrug with his shoulders as he said that, careless and uncaring. His eyes, both his seeing and his blind one, gazed into his own, assessing. "You know what must be done?" At his short nod, Kuzmin motioned a hand at him. "Tell me."

"I am Russell Adler when they come for me," he answered evenly, cooly. "I'll make sure I'm medically cleared in time for the satellite crash and be on site, no matter what. And wait to what must be done in Verdansk."

Kuzmin nodded approvingly, eyes crinkling and he knows the Russian must be smiling wide when he does that. Kuzmin drew closer until he stood over his firm on the gurney, imposing and commanding.

"But who are you really?"

"Cipher."

        8̵̻̆̃ ̸̘̤̓̈́

         1̴̲̬̾̎9̶̮͌͊ ̸̨̉                                                          5̸̥͋ ̸̨̩̅   2̸̱̭̐̎1̶̢͔̒͠
̴̼̾̚
̷̦̤͆̆                     5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                                            1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐
̴̤̱͆
̷̞̳̆                                      5̵̜͙̂̅ ̸̘̔     1̸͖̀͆6̶̳̓ ̴̛͎̃                                1̵̞̓̾1̸͉̖̓ ̷̦͈͋͑

         1̶̘̀ ̸̱͚̑͊

                     9̷͛͜͝.            2̸̰̒1̶̣̤͐.                       ̴̭̅͌9̶̞̉ ̵̱̥̋                                                                       1̴̼̏͘9̶̙̐͜
̷̧̽
̴͍͋                            8̴̡̠̆̀ ̸̮͇͠

       5̸̲̠͒ ̶͚̮̍                                                    1̷̣̐8̵̲̺̈́

̵͈͑̇͜.                    5̵̛͓̳̔

Kuzmin nodded, soon leaving the room and leaving him in the gurney, still with leads connected to him but at least the machine was off.

1̴̡̾1̸̱̍.̶̝̀ ̶̤͠ ̶̛̠ ̴̭̑ ̵͍̌ ̷̙̂ ̸̙͠                       1̶̚͜.̵̩̊ ̸͍̈́ ̴͔̌ ̴̝̇ ̵̍ͅ ̵̼̀ ̴̺͠ ̷̢͗ ̴͖͋9̶̘́
̶͙͂
̵̥̀                                                                    2̷̤͐1̷͕͂
̶̥͒
̸͒ͅ               ̷̪́ ̷̜̋ ̸͈͒ ̵̡͆ ̴͙̌ ̶̙̈́ ̶̧̍ ̴̪̑ ̸͇̽ ̷̻͗ ̶̫̕ ̶͈̔ ̴̫̊ ̴̖͑ ̴̲̈́ ̶͔̇9̴̣̂
̷̢̎
̵̘̏
̶͚̉     ̶̲̑ ̸͇͘ ̴̳͒ ̴̛̤ ̵͚͑ ̷̝͑ ̸̜̇ ̵͇̀ ̴̧̆ ̶̧͑ ̸͓͠ ̴̢͛ ̴͍̓ ̶͈̽ ̴̬̈́ ̴͉̆ ̷̪̆ ̵͇̈ ̷͍̈́ ̸͖͂ ̵͔̂ ̵̟̽ ̷̝̋ ̴̟̈́ ̸͎̀ ̶̤͋ ̴͎͑ ̴͍̽ ̴̪̓ ̸̦̏ ̸̡̽ ̷̨̿1̶̫̕9̵͈̒

It could always be on, he knows this. As the red digits skittered and skattered and glitched and stitched.

A chime rung in his ear.

He didn't turn his gaze towards the figure that appeared, the one with the olive green mask that stood by his feet and stared at him—their eyes, he closes them and that's all he sees too when it's not Kuzmin or numbers, it's numbers and eyes, and red and water—again. They don't leave him alone. They keep having this incessant need to be by him even when he ignores them or tells them to go away. They call him with a name that's not his.

They make the numbers go away, for a time.

"Russell. You know you can't do this," they say with their soft voice that's filled with pity that makes him clench his jaw at the mere tone. The pity always mixed with sympathy. And something else he can't give. "Woods. Mason. Hudson. Sims. They'll be disappointed. You were the best, and now look. You're. . . You're just a toy."

The jab to his pride fell flat. Those names he knows, but the emotions with them is dull. Nonexistent. He only feels what he needs to do. Whatever it takes.

"You don't even know. . .this is—" they laughed, putting a hand to their mask covered face as the sound grated his ears due to how false it sounded. "I don't even know what I'm feeling right now. Looking at you like this. I feel justice is on my side, poetic in every way. You deserve this after what you did to me. You deserve everything. But—" their voice wobbled and the sound made him glance down to see both their hands to their masked head. "Why. Why did I fall for a man like you? Who would kill the one who could ever love every part of him and throw them off a cliff? All for a country that won't know his name. For the world. And now you'll ruin the world." They dropped their hands and their eyes slitted at him, all watery yet filled with rage and despair and more. "If you do this for him, you would've killed me for no fucking reason. You won't have an excuse anymore."

"I don't know you," he says, frowning at them and done with them as well. They always spoke in circles about him killing them or something of the like. Always the same. Sometimes, they mention a kiss. It makes him licks his chapped lips as he continued stoically. "Leave me the fuck alone."

"They'll kill you," they say, knowingly. "With this, they'll kill you. They can't save you if you do this unlike Mason."

"That's if I fail. And I'm not failing." They laugh, it chiming and light and a sound that he admits he doesn't mind this time—although it sounded short. "What?"

They turned sadly amused eyes on him.

"You're still cocky. Arrogant. Stitch couldn't take that away from you. No mind numbing can."

He frowns at them again, squinting at their form by his feet.

"I don't know you," he says again, assessing.

Their smile under their mask widens.

"Oh, Рассел," the way they say their name in their voice, soft and with fondness made his hand twitch on his side. "You know me better than anyone. Just like I know you best. Monsters meant to be alone but never lonely." They put a hand to his ankle, touch cold and icy and makes his hair in his skin rise, as they stared at him and he stared back quizzically. "I promised you I won't ever make you feel like that again. I'm not leaving you no matter what you say."

He stared at them, at their honest eyes that shined and looked at him as if he was their world—universe. It made him distantly wonder if you cared about the actual world like this, based on the way you were looking at him. Yet, based on your earlier words, you didn't seem to care and curse the world instead. For him apparently choosing it instead of you and killing you for it. And he's assisting Kuzmin now.

It was all quite ironic.

His lips twitched up at the thought.

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ✪ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ✪ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

"It has to be Woods that's getting you. He won't sit still and leave you here."

More time passed since Kuzmin's leave. ̸̪͎͌5̷̼͇̜͗͂

The one's left would shock him and the red numbers—

        1̶̙̺̒̅͠6̷͍̮̘̉͌̐ ̷̜̭͕͛͠͝                                                              

                                                                     1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝ ̵̹̱̰͝1̷̣͂͒ ̵̲̐͒̈9̸̔̇̈́͜

̴̦̥̉̾                                     2̸͎͉̃1̵͔͍̌́̒

̸̖̻͑.  9̵͐ͅ ̸̛̗̹̌̈

                                                                1̸̞͙̾̏̒9̷̫͗͘

—would come each time, the red always overtaking and flooding his vision as he could barely make out his surroundings due to all the popping numbers that would dash towards him and feel as if it went through his eyes.  

                       1̸͓̭̮́̑9̶͉̺̤̔͛

"But this really shouldn't have happened in the first place. What were you thinking knowing Stitch laid a trap and you came with a light team anyways?" The one with the mask sat by the desk near his gurney, legs swinging up and down casually as they chattered away.1̶͖̯̞̓̾̔1̸̗͔̤̎͌̈. ̴̥͊̕͝9̷̫̻͊̀̚  The numbers overtook his vision now, but not as worse as it could be. They seem to take the worse of what he hears and sees away. But his ears would ring lowly, a dull chime or a light one randomly. A pattern he can't catch or interpret. "You got reckless and sloppy."

"That doesn't sound like me," he defended himself firmly.

                      1̶̙̺̒̅͠6̷͍̮̘̉͌̐

His eyes turning towards their sitting form sternly. "I'm not sloppy."

"But you are reckless." They retort with a smirk under their mask. They stood and went over to him until they were now over him. Their eyes on him. "Insane too. For insane missions. You do things on the fly. But you should've brought a bigger team to your country's mall. It's almost as if you wanted to get caught."

He thought on it, furrowing his brows before scoffing lightly.

"And come to get tortured? It ended well."

They rose a brow.

                                   2̸͎͉̃1̵͔͍̌́̒

"At least you're aware that you were—are. But you were stupid. Did you think Stitch would just tell you everything and let you go? Your head got bigger since I was gone. Or you turned suicidal, you дерьмовый мудак."

His eyes looked towards them with a mild glare.

"What's wrong with you?" At their offended look, he reiterated. "You act like you hate me and scrutinize me and curse at me and than you fucking look at me as if—"

"As if what?" They interrupted sharply, eyes narrowing.

"As if you love me." He continued, nonplussed.

Their eyes rounded, them taking a step back as if he struck them before they shook themselves, hands clenching on their sides.

        2̸̟͉͍͋̂1̸̧̱̠͐ ̵̞͉̊́͠

              9̴̡͙͔͗̾ ̶͕̜͍̅̏                                                     1̶͇̪͂͠9̶̥́͘͝

"And why," they ask with a hand raising and  touching the junction of his jaw firmly—their touch frost and spreading as his hair rose yet his heart thundered. "Would I love someone who killed me?"

"Why would you?" He threw back, his squinted eyes on them, scrutinizing and assessing because he himself doesn't understand if they truly were killed by him. "I certainly wouldn't."

"You won't do a lot of things," they said lowly, tightly as their hold on him tightened an iota. A high note rose in his ears with each of their words. "I would know. You hide. You always do. Just when you—when we were truthful—you left again and are listening to Stitch. You hid behind your lies. You hid behind your fucking sunglasses. You hid why you took me to the cliffs. And now you hide behind your mind. You always hide."

They let go of his jaw, turning their back towards him as they inhaled and exhaled deeply—as if to calm themselves. Of what, he doesn't know.

He does move around his jaw though, their touch still on him. Spreading around his body. His heart still beating fast against his rib cage. ̸̪͎͌5̷̼͇̜͗͂

The numbers were quiet when they touched him.

"Who are you?"

Their shoulders tensed as they faced him, they than turned their heads towards him over his shoulder and met his curious eyes.

They stared at him for a moment before huffing harshly out their nose, almost as if in a snort before fully facing him.

"I don't know," they answer oddly, confusingly, and than they rose a brow at him under their mask with a knowing sharp smile. "But you can call me Bell. Took you long enough to even bother to ask."

He rattled the name around his brain, looking down for a moment, thinking of chiming laughs, before turning his eyes up on them again.

"That's a nice name."

They, Bell, widened their eyes than laughed. Laughed and laughed as their shoulders shook and they even put a hand to his shoulder as if to steady themselves lest they fall. The sound moving all around him and echoing as they did so as he could only listen and watched, enraptured as they eventually straightened themselves and tried to catch their breath.

"Of course you would think so," they say in answer to his bewildered stare, a smile below their mask. "You gave it to me, Russ."

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

                                        9̴͕͇͓̉

"Fucking good to have you back, Adler. Hudson's been more of a shit than usual with you gone." Woods pat his shoulder harshly as he stood by him on his hospital bed.

8̸̯̙̂͠ͅ ̶͕͍̫̍͘                                           5̷̨̗̥̽͝
̵̨̧̪̑.                    1̷̞̲͌́͝8̴̠̎̔
̸̧͚̳̈́
̴̫̑̊̏5̵̲͕̿ ̴̝͛̒͠ ̴͙̈͝                                                                1̸̭͖̂͜6̸̫̝̂́
̶̮̱̼̈́
̴̳̇͛͝.            5̴̹̠̾̀͘ ̷͉̩̞̿̌͌

                                           1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆ ̵̥̕ ̷͙͊͛̋1̴̩̐8̸̢̖̗̊͊

The rescue happening a few hours earlier, them landing back in the States ground and immediately bringing him to the government hospital in Langley. The process of recovery beginning as another IV site was placed in him. Bell was leaning in one corner of his hospital room, near the hospital's couch and listening to Woods continuing to rant and rave about Hudson with fond and humored eyes, the raven haired man making sudden body movements as—
̴̪̞͓͆͗

                                          5̸̠̮̎̔̂
̴̠͎̌̒͘
̶̟̱̝̅1̸̼͖̞͛8̵̨͔̆͌̓.̷̝͝ ̶̥̯̃            

                   2̷̡͙̙͐̍1̶̹̯͎̔
̸̜̈́  

—he could only stare at the man with a slightly rose brow as he went on. He recalls how the man was, but perhaps he underestimated his memories.

"—and man, I'm just fucking glad to see you those Red's didn't mess you up too bad. But we'll get that motherfucker Stitch once you heal up." Woods sharply grinned, squeezing his shoulder before dropping it back by his side. "I'll let you get him yourself. Now!" The loud man turned, grabbing his jacket and putting it on and giving him a mock salute. "See ya, Adler! Try not to use that gift I gave you too much. Bad if you'd cough a lung." He gave the one man army a nod and he was gone.

9̴͚̏ ̴͖̭͒                                             

                                     1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆                                       5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

              2̷̡͖͉̾1̶̦̳̊
̴͈̻͐̕
̵̩̮̆ Perhaps he can finally have some peace and quiet. He grabbed the pack of smokes on his over-bed table and his zippo he left in Berlin that Woods brought, lighting one as Bell neared him with crossed arms.

"You're not going to listen to him are you." They stated more than asked, amused as he did a small grunt as he inhaled the nicotine greedily, his eyes glancing to where his hospital door was to make sure it was closed. He doesn't need a nurse to come in to nag at him. He already has Bell trying to do that. Their gaze moved towards the door as well, eyes soft he distantly noted when his eyes assessed theirs. "He's exactly as I remember him. Still the same with how he slaps everyone and is loud. I'm. . . glad he's alright."

                                                       1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝

"The two of you were close?" He asked as he exhaled, their eyes seeming to hone in on the action. At least the numbers faded as they always did when Bell spoke. "I'm surprised that Sims wasn't on this mission, personally."

He has memories and knowledge, but the emotions were dulled. Not quite the same. Not how he knew it was based on the memories he had with everyone back in the States.

It was becoming the reverse with Bell.

They've been by his side since he can first recall the red that was in the edges of his vision and numbers coming upon him. Bell says they've been with him longer than that, but he doesn't remember because he let Stitch get to him.

                     5̵̣̋̋͘

Bell can sometimes be a blunt little shit.

No matter how their touches at times makes his heart stutter strangely. Especially that one time, right before the rescue and exhaustion was upon him due to the harsh recent shocks, the way they traced his scarred cheek as if it was art and he the canvas.

He doesn't understand them. Even if they said he knows them the best, he doesn't understand based on what Bell has said about their history how they can stay by him.

                                                           1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

                           9̴͚̏

Promise or not.

Bell hummed, rocking on their feet as they pocketed their hands to their jacket.

"We were. Once. Just for a little bit. He would smack me in the face with burgers from Burgertown, still wrapped." Bell chuckled at the memory, eyes looking down. "He would call me slow for not being quick enough to catch a burger. Even though he knew what I could do from the mission we were on together in Ukraine. Mason stopped him from throwing some fries. Woods would always say he wouldn't waste fries to hide he was going to throw them." Bell laughed slightly, lifting their gaze up to the ceiling with a distant smile under their mask. "I think they were the only two that didn't lie to me. They made me feel like I belonged."

He idly puffed as he stared at them.

"Sounds like I did a horrible job." They turned their gaze towards him as he went on, him now thinking where he can put the ash of his cigarette. Great. 5̵̣̋̋͘ "You had implanted memories with me but two strangers made you feel more part of the group."

They release air out their nose as they shook their head slowly.

"You had your own ways of doing that."

"Which were?"

They ignored him and continued, a small rush of irritation going through him but he let it go.

"As for Sims, he never quite liked doing all this I gathered. Maybe he finally got some peace and is relaxing. Retired. Maybe Hudson thought he was being kind and didn't tell Sims about what happened to you."

He thought back about the man with a stern expression always planted on his face, pressing his lips for a moment as he held his cigarette in his hand before nodding.

"Sounds like him. Based on what I remember."

"Lucky."

He shot them an unamused look as they furrowed their brows at him.

"What?"

"Can you stop making those comments about what I did? I don't even remember doing them."

They made an unamused sound at the back of their throat, than scoffing.

"I'll do what I want and say what I want when it comes with you. Especially now," they glanced at his IV stand, frowning under their mask as they paused. ". . . I'm going to fade soon. You won't see me anymore."

1̶̙̺̒̅͠6̷͍̮̘̉͌̐ ̷̜̭͕͛͠͝                                                              

                                        1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝ ̵̹̱̰͝           1̷̣͂͒ ̵̲̐͒̈

His cigarette dropped from his hand onto his sheets, making him curse as he patted it down quickly and ash was on the white sheets. Once he saw it was out, he darted his eyes towards them.

"What? Why?"

They nodded their head towards his IV stand, him glancing at it at the IV bags attached, better medicine and stronger dosages than what he was given with Kuzmin.

"The medicine they gave you, it's what made me come. Or at least strong enough to come. The last bits of that medicine will eventually get flushed out while you're in the hospital. I'll give it about three or five days—"

                                             1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝

"You can't leave." He commanded, eyes narrowed.

They threw him a befuddled look.

"Do you think I can control that? Besides," they tilted his head at them as they drew closer to be right above him as his blood pumped. "You always act like I annoy you and am the bane of your existence. You after all get irritated each time I mention what you've done—"

"I don't remember doing those things," he cut in again, desperation in his voice he recognized but he didn't care. Bell can't leave. They can't. That's all he knows and care to know. "You can't leave. You need to stay."

"You always hide," they say with a small tsk. He clenched his jaw, tight. "Just now with your memories. And need? What do you need me for?"

A muscle on his jaw twitched just as the vein on his neck pulsed.

2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠ ̶̧̐        

                       9̴̢̼̀ ̸͉́͝

                                      1̵͈̜̿͐9̸̻͑͋

He thought of chiming laughs and teasing jokes and unfriendly jabs where he had to discern if it had heat or not. Of cold touches upon his skin yet made him warm and his heart quicken as he looked at them and they him with those eyes—those eyes that stare and see him and through him and into him and out of him—and it felt like everything faded, including the pain and it was just them two. Of small stories that involved the two of them, that wasn't about what he did in the cliffs, but little moments with their books and reciting quotes to him or him making their coffee once how they liked it.

He thought of the numbers and the drip's and the drop's and the dip's too. They go away.

"You can't leave," he commands again, stronger. Firmer. "I won't allow it."

"You won't—" they sputtered, shaking their head as if to clear it before eyes focused back on him. "Won't allow it? You can't control this, Russ. You have to learn to live without me. You seemed to have done it easily before."

"I don't know how I did that," he admits as their eyes widened, their chest seeming to stop as he went on. "I doubt I did. And I remember the medicine. I'll find someone. I'll ask the nurse for it. You can't leave. So you won't."

They stared at him before they drew closer, a hand to his scarred cheek that made his eyes nearly flutter shut but instead made them half lidded. A stray finger traced a scar as if it was a trail of adventure.

                                                                              1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝

"You left me before. And not just in the cliffs. You don't even remember who I am," they say, voice a wobbling thing as their eyes shined and he could only stare. "I don't even know who I was before. Only what I am now. You knew who I was before. But now you don't even know either. You don't remember."

Their hand shook. Just as the ringing in his ears grew.

He reached, for the first time that he remembered, and placed a hand to the one that covered his scarred cheek. Their breath hitched in their throat as he pressed his warm large calloused hand against their frigid one. Clear blue eyes staring up at round ones.

"It's all a bit ironic, wouldn't you say?"

They let out a surprised laugh, their breath fanning his face even through the mask as he watched how their eyes crinkled and how the sound from their throat rung, a tinkle yet loud as they leaned their masked head against his. Trying to catch their breath and than opening their eyes and meeting his, their lashes brushing his almost like a kiss.

"You're insane but not stupid," they said with a knowing smile.

"I'm a lot of things," he eventually answered quietly as he looked at the orbs that were in his dreams. "But stupid isn't one."

They laughed again and he swore he'll hear it again.

They can't leave.

5̸̧͆̆ ̷̛̻̐͌                        1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̬̙̇͐

          5̷̝̳͐ ̴̞̑                                                1̶͇̥͙̍8̷̧͙̿̕.   ̸̳̖̒̄̃1̶͇͛̉͜9̴̺̆͛

They can't.

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚
̷̦̤͆̆                     5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                                            1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐
̴̤̱͆
̷̞̳̆                  Drop.                    5̵̜͙̂̅ ̸̘̔     1̸͖̀͆6̶̳̓ ̴̛͎̃                  .

          5̷̝̳͐ ̴̞̑                                     .       .       .           1̶͇̥͙̍8̷̧͙̿̕

.  Drip.

                                .        

2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠ ̶̧̐        

                       9̴̢̼̀ ̸͉́͝                  Drip.            .  

                                      1̵͈̜̿͐9̸̻͑͋.

1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

                           9̴͚̏ .                        Dip.

         .                                                                   1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                              5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

              2̷̡͖͉̾1̶̦̳̊

                                              . .                         1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝ ̵̹̱̰͝1̷̣͂͒ ̵̲̐͒̈9̸̔̇̈́͜

̴̦̥̉̾               Drop.                      2̸͎͉̃1̵͔͍̌́̒

Once he 1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚
̷̦̤͆̆                     5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊     got medically discharged, did some searching around in dark corners and old files of high file drug cases,

                              1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

              2̷̡͖͉̾1̶̦̳̊

                                              . .                 Drop.      

                         1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝ ̵̹̱̰͝

Drip.

                                          1̷̣͂͒ ̵̲̐͒̈9̸̔̇̈́͜.        he sat in his old room of his apartment with a needle to his arm. Steady as the medicine went in, needle breaking skin and liquid flowing, cigarette between his lips.        1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .         Dip.  .                              5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝

.   

                             Drop.

He would've preferred a quicker site, through the arm it will take a few more minutes. Minutes he doesn't want anymore. He would've put it through his eye but he was concerned he would've missed the proper site to do it through even with a mirror.    1̸̭͖̂͜6̸̫̝̂́

                                                                Dip..                    .

                                  .
̶̮̱̼̈́    5̴̹̠̾̀͘ ̷͉̩̞̿̌͌

                                             1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆ ̵̥̕    Drop.                 ̷͙͊͛̋1̴̩̐8̸̢̖̗̊͊

.                  .                  .

     Drop.

5̵̣̋̋͘ ̴͈̻͐̕He thought of the neck but he doesn't want others to ask questions so best with the arm that he can cover due to the weather. 1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆

̶̮̱̼̈́    5̴̹̠̾̀͘ ̷͉̩̞̿̌͌

                               Drip.          .

.                                                                                     .

.            Drop.                      1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆ ̵̥̕ 

He sat back in his seat, inhaling all the nicotine out of his cigarette of his third pack of the day, other hand atop his knee and squeezing and releasing as the red didn't go away.

It's taking too fucking long, I know I got the right one. Shitty thing was connected to me for months.

Dip.

         .                                                                   1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                              5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

              2̷̡͖͉̾1̶̦̳̊

He rubbed his hands on his thighs before squeezing his eyes shut. He was stressed and exhausted, one could see that if they looked at him but he plays a good role and he has his aviators back, which were on his bedside table now. His hair was still a dark brown, not quite the same shine as before due to his time imprisoned and out of sunlight, long still but he managed to clean his face a bit but that's all. He knows he doesn't look the same as before. Probably won't ever go back—even now his hair got out of the style he put it in due to him mussing it back with his hand.

1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚

̷̦̤͆̆                     5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                                            1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐
̴̤̱͆
̷̞̳̆                  Drop.                    5̵̜͙̂̅ ̸̘̔     1̸͖̀͆6̶̳̓ ̴̛͎̃                  .

          5̷̝̳͐ ̴̞̑                         

He took another sharp puff of addiction, but not what he craves now, exhaling and opening his eyes as he watched the smoke curl above him lazily.

"That will never get old."

A chime rang.

He jerked in his seat, whipping his head towards the voice. A figure—with the mask, always with the mask and never off, maybe he could remember if they saw their face—stepped out from where his bathroom in his bedroom was, black boots and tight camo pants and bomber leather jacket and those eyes—they know him, better than he knows himself, better than anyone—were not on him but looking around his room. Not coming to him.

"You don't have any pictures," they observed aloud, looking at his bare walls outside the basic decorative art pieces one may have. "I shouldn't be really surprised but you should have some around at least. They're memories. Reminders. What do you have to show who you are?"

They like pictures.

He didn't answer, only stared as they stood in front of a wall with some shitty art piece of mountains and a lake and he put his cigarette out—the taste of the spices on his tongue due to him biting it in surprise. He watched. And he listened.

His vision faded back with the red a hint, and the water stopped.

                     5̵̜͙̂̅

They kept staring at the art, with unreadable eyes before speaking with their quiet and soft curious tone.

"When did you get this? Do you remember?"

He stared at their back for a few more moments, before turning to the art piece that has their attention, squinting at it.

"Not really." He really doesn't, the memory coming up blank. Outside of, "I know it's the most recent one though. Not really one to admire art. But it reminded me of something."

They looked at him over their shoulder.

"Of what?"        

                1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

He shrugged lightly, eyes focused on them, practically piercing. They fully turned towards him now, frowning under their mask as their gaze flitted towards the empty syringe by him and rubber strap and the medicine that brought them back.

"Why am I here?"

Stupid question.

He didn't answer because it should be obvious as he gave them a look, making them release a small noise of frustration as they took a step towards him.

"I'm being serious. You shouldn't be doing this."

"Why? It's not like it's a strong dose. I know what I'm doing." They released a sigh, palming their face over the mask as they muttered curses about him. "You make fucked up shit in my mind go away. Clear it so my concentration improves. That better?"

They dropped their hand from their face, furrowing their brows and frowning before their eyes narrowed.2̷̡͖͉̾1̶̦̳̊

"What? So you're using me so you could do your job given to you by Kuzmin better? I don't even want to see you like this, Russ." They motioned a hand at him as if to show, a spark of irritation flowing through him before it died out as they drew closer. "Are you going to make me help you in destroying the world you cared so much about before? Make me see you die?"

"It'd be justice for you, wouldn't it?" He asked genuinely before continuing as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And you're being pessimistic. I told you I won't fail. I don't do failure. Were you always like this? Before?"

Bell snorted, shaking their head in disbelief.

"Your ego is bigger than any nuke you'll drop. And no," they answer, looking down at their hands before clenching them slowly. "I believed in you and our work. We both were optimistic you could say." They had a secret smile on their mask as they said that but that's all he needed.

"Than believe in me again."

"That's hard to do. Since you're just making me help you like always."

                                                          1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐

Such a little shit, he thought, but not unkindly. Making me have to say it.

"You promised." He reminded them cooly as their eyes raise to his form. "Didn't you say that? And I told you I wouldn't allow you to leave, so you won't. I need you."

"Why?" They asked genuinely, as he stood from his chair and grew near them until he was directly in front. He could feel their coolness even without touching them.

His ears rang.

"You're the only one who knows me. Truly." He grabbed their hand, firm and cold, and put it to his scarred cheek as he stared down at them and their eyes rounded. "You're a monster too you said. Will you leave?"

They stared up at him, than at his hand that somehow could touch them, over their hand as they felt his scarred cheek. They thumbed the one on his chin reverently with lidded eyes.

"No," they say brokenly. "I don't think I ever can."

They than wrapped their arms around his shoulders, tip toeing as they did so and his hair rose as his heart quickened, he put his arms around their waist and hid his face to their neck.

They smelled of salty arctic air.

              1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝

"I missed you, Bell," he confesses lowly to their neck.

Their cracked laugh shook their body and sounded like a damaged wind chime in it's tenor.

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

He threw a cigarette out to the ground, stomping on it before he continued back to his apartment. Bell trailing and walking beside him as they walked through the afternoon streets of Virginia, the last day he'll be here thanks to his skills.

His mental clearance was easy when he upped the dose a tad for Bell—in turn their presence coming stronger and keeping away the numbers—the drip's, the drops, the dip's, the glitches, the stitches, the forward, the backward—along with anything else for a longer period of time. His shades helped too, in hiding his slightly dilated pupils—but not the red in the corners. That, and his words of stubborn necessity towards Hudson to capture Stitch himself and go back to Verdansk was enough for the man to give the approval.

Bell didn't seem impressed with him.

"He hasn't changed either," they said with mild distaste. "Well, maybe a little. He's not that bright in letting you go already when you've been in enemy's hands for so long. The stress is getting to him."

He didn't care for Hudson's lack of tact since it's in his favor, but the way they struck a jab at the man brought a shadow of a smirk to his lips.

So far, it's only been Bell that can achieve that.

                                               1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

They would poke fun at him again though, that he was still human after all if he found things funny. Hits and snips and quips they seem to find necessary. Best to joke than to wallow. He understood. Which is why he let them.

It didn't stop the pointed looks he would shot their way though. Which they would shrug at and he would turn back again to what he was doing, whether it was the reports he was looking over his desk or walking in public or reading the newspaper for any possible codes within for a sign, with his lips twitching before settling.

A few days before, he stopped in front of a store in thought before going in. Bell looking at the sign and questioning him as he bought what he came in for, walking out with it, hidden in the plastic bag as he drove to a nearby park that was calm.

He stepped out his car with the item out the bag and box, cigarette between his lips, looking it over as Bell incessantly asked questions over his shoulder.

"Why did you buy that?" They asked, pointing at the camera as he checked it over and did an experimental click over to the trees of the park with birds flying past as he hummed around his cigarette in approval at the device when he saw it went through, putting the strap around his neck as he locked his car. "You don't even have any pictures at your apartment. You never seemed interested. . .unless," their tone turned teasing as they looked at him through his shades, "you feel hurt about what I said? Never thought I would see the day."

"It's not for me. It's for you." They were struck silent, mouth agape under their mask but he didn't pay them any mind as he looked around the park with it's many trees and park benches and lamp posts, puffing on his cigarette lazily and exhaling as he grabbed the stick with his hand. "Tell me what you want to take pictures of. You're going to have to guide me if you want it right."

They were still silent, mouth moving and stuttering without speaking as his eyes flicked towards them, with him cocking a brow.

                                                                9̷͉͇̠͋

"B-but, y-you—" Now they were stuttering. And interesting sight and one he took in greedily as both his brows rose above his sunglasses in silent prodding, perhaps a smidge of goading. "You bought it. You've never—" they stopped, eyes going from the camera to his patient yet growing amused expression. "Why?" They settled.

He shrugged lightly.

"You like pictures," he explained simply. They stared. He than nodded at the park and began walking, putting his cigarette to his lips. "Come on. Just tell me where you want them."

They eventually moved behind him, still silent for a time and staring at him as if he grew a second head. He didn't pay them much mine, just asked them again before they both have to leave. And to stop making him talk aloud or else other's will look. They shook themselves than, pointing at spots randomly that looked dull and mundane to him but you had a shine in your eyes as he took pictures of the sky, the trees, a park bench with a couple, of a family of ducks.

He had to tell them to stop, as he checked the film.

"We have to save the rest. For next time."

Bell looked at him, eyes—those big, round, bright eyes that are open in every emotion to him—hopeful.

"We're doing this again?"

He shot them a look with a rose brow.

"You like it. So we'll do it."

Bell looked at him, once more, as if he grew an additional head. Their gaze than turning to the side and flitting down in an interesting manner.

"Why?"

Bell's embarrassed, he observed idly with a lazy tap of his cigarette to rid of the ash.

"I said why. You're happy," their gaze met his, making him lose his train of thought for a moment before continuing. 5̵̜͙̂̅  "Think of it as whatever you like if that doesn't satisfy you. As thanks for being stuck with me," their mouth twitched up at that, releasing a small light chuckle that made him stare intently to take it in along with his nicotine. "Or, you can see it as having reminders of how this world was before. Before I do my mission." He exhaled and dropped the cigarette, stomping it as their lips fell.

But than they snorted in disbelief, shaking their head as they put a hand to it.

"You are, and always will be, such an odd man."

It's now the time to settle and prepare, as he reached his apartment with Bell. His flight for Verdansk in several hours as he relaxed into comfier sleepwear, a whiskey in hand with shades off and another dose to his arm. Bell looking at the developed pictures he managed to get from the repeated times they've used the camera the past couple of days when he got out of the CIA building on the couch.

He took a sip, looking over his cup at them from his own seat in the living room as they looked at the photos before laying down their whole form on it. Arm over their forehead and staring up, almost wistfully as they let out a quiet sigh.

"Even with all these pictures you took. . . it's not really the ones I want." He lowered his cup, before doing a small nod. He understands that they would prefer other pictures, true memories of places with others, with them in it. "I really just want ones of you."

His eyes flicked towards them, zeroing in. But you just continued to look up and stare distantly at the ceiling. As if you were away.

"Before, I managed to get ones of everyone. A lot actually. But you. . .you were a bit harder to convince to let me take ones of you. Apprehensive," they explained softly, a melancholic smile on their lips below the mask. "It meant letting me get close. To see you. It meant giving me more freedom than I had with a little hobby. When we were supposed to catch the man I was under once. It meant not hiding. For once. Even though you never could. Not from me." Bell chuckled dryly. "You probably knew that. Still, despite all that, I did manage to get three. I remember them as if I had those photos instead of the ones you took—like the back of my hand. One was when we were both up late in the safehouse, just us two, and I took one right when you were lighting up a cigarette with your zippo. You can't exactly lecture at me if your mouth was busy."

                                   
1̵͚͛̈́̕1̷̞͝

They laughed slightly at that, no doubt having the image in their mind as he could only listen and drink and watch them. As they spoke of memories he doesn't have yet it was with both of them.

His hand twitched around his shot glass.

"Another time was right when you exhaled smoke from your mouth, as if you were a dragon—the picture capturing the smoke curling and moving around you perfectly. You. . . You teased me than if I just wanted to try your cigarette and that's why I looked so excited when I showed you the picture." They paused, a few beats passing as they seemed to be in thought before moving the arm over their head to over their eyes, blocking their vision. "You said you were joking before I could answer. And than you quickly distracted me back to work and to focus. You were hiding that time. You. . . You always do." He shifted as he stood, cup empty since he threw the rest back. "And than the last picture—"

Bell stopped when he put his hand to their arm, lifting it show their eyes as he sat at the edge of the couch and stared down at them. Hawkish electric blue fire for eyes on them.

"I don't hide. And I won't from you."

Bell stared up at him before smiling sadly and shook their head against the pillow cushion under them.

"You always will. You have to. To do your job.  Whatever it takes. The world—"

He slammed a hand over where their head was, their mouth quickly closing as he drew near them and their face, jaw taut.

"Fuck the world. My only concern is you."

They swallowed, head almost sinking into the cushions, as their eyes were round and dilated. He can smell the sea.

Their eyes than went to their normal size as they shook their head at him with a frown.

"You don't mean that. Stitch is in your head. You. . . You would never say that before."

"Why, Bell?" He demanded with narrowed eyes on yours. "Because I chose the world over you before?" They didn't answer. Their stare was enough as he scoffed. "I shouldn't have done that. I should've never let you go. I won't ever let you go."

He put his other hand not above their head to their masked jaw, the material soft.

Their breath stuttered in their throat.

"The Russell I know wouldn't choose one sole person over the world. I understood why you did it, it's not like I didn't. I would've made the same choice—I—I just—" they stopped when he thumbed their lip over their mask. ". . . Russ. You know I'm not here."

He met their eyes.

"Than why do I feel you?" Bell made an interesting sound at the back of their throat with that, eyes shining right before they closed him as they almost let out a choked sob. "And you just wish we had a chance. If I gave you a chance. Listen to me," he grabbed their throat firmly but gently, their eyes opening as they took him in and he did the same. "I want you."

And again, they ask brokenly, "Why?"

He thought of the lab, when the pain was harsh and he didn't know them but they would try to distract him with words and observations. He thought of Bell always there, by him, for him. No matter how he acted or what he said. He thought of eyes—

           1̸̯̪̊6̶̺̈́ ̶̙͉͐
̵̘̔
̷̻̈́͝

that see in him, his soul, every secret he wants hidden from the war and more, of decisions and regrets and just stares and looks and how they shine—and he thought of the laughs that made a sound of a bell chime echo around his head. He thought of fate and of irony and even with them dead—the universe is determined to show him the hand he dealt. He thought of monster's that were cursed and cursed themselves in their corners, head's bowed from an art piece of a mountain over a lake with the sun over and it almost looks like the sea.

He thought of the way they said his name, of fondness and of reverence and of teasing and of knowing with a curious tilt of the lips.

"Because," he said, eyes and tone even and clear, "you're everything, Bell."

Their lips wobbled under their mask, before they quickly lifted it up until they stopped right above their lips and dragged him down and they swallowed him whole.

He did the same, getting atop of them on the couch and he knows they're not really here—but he feels them everywhere with their frosty touch that warms him and he wants everything as he pulls his shirt off of him and moved to their own clothes. Pulling and prodding as he kissed and they nipped as if ravenous, their hands going to his hair and pulling and raking their fingers through it as they sighed when he nipped at their neck as they kicked their pants off.

"I always wanted to touch your hair like this," they said in a breath.

He grazed his lips over theirs as he answered.

"You can do it whenever you want it. Always."

They moaned, their breath on his neck and arms on his shoulders with nails to his back as he rutted and grinded and it felt as wondrous and addicting as he thought they would be. They're an addiction, a craving and he just wants more as they moved to his room.

Leaving stray and wrinkled pillows of his couch, used.

He won't let Bell go.

Especially with how they say his name with their accent.

"Рассел."

He won't.

A bell rang incessantly.

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

Verdansk.

It went well, he got the piece from the satellite as planned with his team not suspecting a thing. Only Bell throwing him looks of pity as he did his work and did what he had to. An operation that is needed no matter what he thinks Kuzmin will say, the bombs placed down below within the old World War II bunker.

That's all they kept doing since they both arrived here, or looks of sympathy but he doesn't understand why they looked like that. He asked them when he was in the safety of his room, alone and with his dosages to keep them near.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," they brushed a stray strand from his forehead just as they reached their other hand to trace a scar on his cheek, eyes knowing and sorrowful. "This will end in your death. Trust me, I should know."

"And I said I won't let you go," he replied with a hand going to theirs on his cheek. "I won't fail."

They looked at him sadly and just shook their head.

He'll calm their nerves, he tells himself as he works once he got word the numbers began and they started to spread not just for him but for everyone.

                                                                          1̸̯̪̊

He works with the team he has in Verdansk, him playing the sequence of numbers and he watched as their eyes seemed to glaze over, something gone as they faced him and awaited what needed to be done.

"Russell," they call to him once he received a warning that vehicles, American, were on their way and a transmission with Mason's voice was heard as he prepped himself. Already knowledgeable of Kuzmin's orders for this next sequence of events. "This won't end well. Listen to me, I—I loved our time together. With you like this, but you have to snap out of it. You'll become someone you've always despised. The type of person you would chase. You need to push away the number's. You have to go back."

"The numbers go away when you're here," he says distractingly, loading his SMG. "More specifically, it lessens. And go back? To the one who kicked you off the cliff?" Bell flinched slightly when his gaze pierced towards them. "I don't want to be that fucker again."

                         5̸̢̍

"If you do this," they say desperately, hand to their chest and one to his tense shoulder. "I died for nothing. You would've killed me for no reason. For you to be the destruction of the free world."

He shrugged them off, growing impatient as he stared down at them.

"As long as you're here, I don't give a shit."

He turned away from them, even as they called his name sadly. The name he was before. But, it's a name Kuzmin told him to pretend to be. Not the one, the new one he gained and was placed with irony and meaning and fate weaving with laughter.

At the end of all this, he's Cipher.

Cipher used his earpiece, checking out the window and spotting Mason in the far entrance of the station.

Now, he has a job to do.

                                            1̶̧̄̋8̸̳̉

☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ❔☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ❔☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭ ☭

1̸̭͖̂͜6̸̫̝̂́

                                .        

                         2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠

       1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚
̷̦̤͆̆                                5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                                            1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐
̴̤̱͆
̷̞̳̆                  Drop.                    5̵̜͙̂̅ ̸̘̔     1̸͖̀͆6̶̳̓ ̴̛͎̃                  .

          5̷̝̳͐ ̴̞̑                                     .       .       .           1̶͇̥͙̍8̷̧͙̿̕

.  Drip.

                                .        

2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠ ̶̧̐        

                       9̴̢̼̀ ̸͉́͝                  Drip.            .  

                                      1̵͈̜̿͐9̸̻͑͋.

  Dip..                    .

                                  .
̶̮̱̼̈́    5̴̹̠̾̀͘ ̷͉̩̞̿̌͌

                                             1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆ ̵̥̕    Drop

"1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌."

                     He can't understand where he is. He's hooked up again.      9̴͚̏ .                        Dip.

         .                                                                   1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                              5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

  Dip..                    .

                                  .
̶̮̱̼̈́    5̴̹̠̾̀͘ ̷͉̩̞̿̌͌

                                             1̶̫͊̔9̴̡̻͍̿̄͆ ̵̥̕    Drop.

To the machine, to the leads. The room is dark outside of the harsh white light to his face, as he struggled against the straps in the chair  Dip.

         .                                                                   1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                              .5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽—the metal chair, by the sink, by the drops, the drops aren't real—and moved his head back and forth against the head rest.  2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠

       1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚
̷̦̤͆̆                                5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                                            1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐
̴̤̱͆
̷̞̳̆                  Drop.                    5̵̜͙̂̅ ̸̘̔     1̸͖̀͆

Where's Bell?

"1̶̱͝8̴̲̠̇͐."

That voice—Mason. He's captured—but no, no, nonononononono—where's Bell?!

9̶͎̾.                                                                    ̸̟̤̌̔1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘ ̵̺͍̓̕

        9̴͚̏ .                        Dip.

         .                                        2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠        .         .

                                                           Drip.        

       1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚                2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇
̷̦̤͆̆                                                           5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊                  2̷̭̌͗1̷̭̥̐

                                1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

He jerked in his chair, cold sweat and shivering and screaming his voice hoarse, seeing eyes—and more eyes and eyes that see into him and through him as if he an ant and them a god—1̶̧̄̋8̸̳̉.                          1̵͍̔͋

Drip.  .             .  2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇

                5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗                           1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

They take away the numbers—they take away everything, every shred of culpability he's ever had, the shots and sounds of 'Nam, of bayonets squelching into bodies,       1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘ ̵̺͍̓̕

        9̴͚̏ .                        Dip.                  2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇

               5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗                                  Drip.  .            1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                              5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽ Drop.

of his squad being wiped, of the sensation of his face being cut open, of every fuck up he's ever done, of a meaningless golden ring that he threw into the ocean of the pier he kneeled with one knee—he won't kneel ever again—they take it away when he took so much from them,

" 9̴͚̏."

Drop.

He screamed his voice raw until he could taste copper.

           2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇      .                  .

                                          5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗                             

1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘ ̵̺͍̓̕

                                                 9̴͚̏ .                        Dip.

         .                                        2̸̡̀̐̇1̷̜̦͠        .         .

1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘ ̵̺͍̓̕

        9̴͚̏ .                            Drip.          .                            1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋                                     
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .                                         .5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝

—he took so much but they stayed, they wouldn't leave, they said they wouldn't, he trusts Bell more than anyone, more than he ever could anybody or anything or any being because they're Bell and they're more and if they said they won't ever leave his side than they wouldn't— 2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇

̴͕̽͘1̵͍̔͋ ̴͈̍̏                          .           .                                     Drip.

        8̷̝̊̑ ̵̫̣̕9̶͎̾ ̸̟̤̌̔      .           2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇ ̴͕̽͘                                                    1̵͍̔͋ ̴͈̍̏8̷̝̊̑ ̵̫̣̕9̶͎̾

         .                                           .         1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘ ̵̺͍̓̕                       

                               Drop.

     8̷̝̊̑         .   

.                                  .                        2̷̭̌͗1̷̭̥̐ ̸̘̍̆                Dip. 1̷͈̒8̶̫̲̂

There's a red door.

   Drip.         9̶͎̾.                                                                      ̸̟̤̌̔1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘

       1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚                2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇
̷̦̤͆̆                                                           5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊       

                                      Drop.

     8̷̝̊̑         .   

         2̷̭̌͗1̷̭̥̐

                                1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

He goes through.

9̶͎̾.                                                       .       .               ̸̟̤̌̔1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘

       1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚                2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇      .    .Drop.
̷̦̤͆̆                            .     .                  5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊        .           .

                               Dip.

Drip.             .                                                                   1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋
̴̣̩͚͆
̵͍͔̆               .           .         

     8̷̝̊̑         .   

         2̷̭̌͗1̷̭̥̐

                                1̴͔̟̝̿9̷͉͇̠͋

    Drop.               .5̵̣̋̋͘ ̶̠́́͗1̷̝̱̬̓8̸͎̄͝ ̴̼̎̽

.

.            .          

         .                              .               .    

.        .                                                        .   

.                            .          

         .                              .               .    

                               •••                            

                                  ..                             

                                  ..                            

                              ................                            

                        .....                .....                       

                      .....                                        

                    ......                                          

                                                .....                

                 .......                                             

                                                  ......             

                                                   .......              

                ........                                               

                ........                                              

                                                  .....            

                                                  .....             

              •••••                                                 

              .......                                                 

                                                    ......           

            ......                                                  

          .......                                          ......         

        ........                                             •••••       

      ........                                                         

                                                            ..... 

    ........                                                          

    ............................                                          ................•••......   

                           ••••  ..................................                        

                            ....                                  

                                                           "до свидания, Рассел."

                                      .

.                        .                              .

.                        .                               . 

.                               .                  .   

.      .         

                    .                   .                      .   

.        .                                                        .   

               " и добро пожаловать обратно."

.                            .          

         .                              .               .     .                              .               .    

.        .                                                        .   

.                            .           .                              .               .    

.        .                                                        .   

.                            .          

A bell chimes.

Snap.

Adler snaps his eyes open with a gasp.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

Bell never left.

It's always him leaving them.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

Adler changed into the gear given to him by Hudson, still in the room where he got rewired back into who he was thanks to Mason.

"You  have  to go back."

He tightened the straps on his hips, clenched jaw as he tried to shake away the leftover redness and the voice that wasn't here anymore, his back to the chair of where he sat by all those televisions that were in front of him. Where Adler saw himself be another person and Kuzmin—Stitch—moving upon him with gait one might call like a prowl. The red moved and his ears pricked.

He zoomed his eyes to the corner of the sound, his body seeming to freeze and heart at his throat only to see Mason was zipping up a bag. Adler turned away, muscle in his jaw twitching. Mason glancing at him before turning away back to what he was doing in the lab/interrogation room.

It was just him and Mason in here, Hudson having to make a call for their immediate transport to Verdansk and to clean up the shit Adler made. A whole fuck up of bombs that he placed under buildings or within where he knew would cause the most destruction—or rather—the one who wasn't him as Mason said. A pawn, a toy soldier, a robot and a puppet and everything for Stitch—oh, he'll kill that man.

Adler didn't ask about the casualties and deaths due to the bombs.

Bell didn't either, he thought to himself, attaching his vest with narrowed eyes and focus. They didn't want to know what could've happened. If they didn't say Solovetsky.

Two shots rung in his head, the sensation of arctic air cutting one cheek and a bullet whizzing past purposefully on his other. A body falling forward.

He's not planning on asking. Willful ignorance, he decides.

"You hide. You always do."

His knuckles were white as he put on his combat boots. Black. Like their's.

Adler stopped, putting a hand to his face as he took a steadying breath as he sat back on the floor. He could feel Mason staring at him.

"You know," Mason began, quiet as he stood a few feet away from Adler and finishing up checking the gear and weapons they're bringing. Adler kept his hand to his face, hiding his eyes. "I saw some thing's too, when the Red's got me. Saw them for sometime. Or rather, someone."

"I know," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with eyes closed and red danced behind his lids. "I read the report. Reznov. You sounded close."

Mason chuckled, a dry nostalgic sound.

"We were. Close enough for me to see him everywhere apparently and my mind tricking me into thinking he wasn't dead."

Adler's eyes opened, cooly glancing up at him. Mason released a small sigh, stopping what he was doing and looking down at the scarred man.

"When I was taking away and tearing off what Stitch did to you, you were yelling a name." Mason looked at him steadily. "You were yelling for Bell."

Adler stared at the man, stubbornly silent as his glacier eyes dared Mason to say something else. A warning.

Mason raised his hands defensively.

"I'm not judging you, Adler. I just want you to know I get it. Be glad that I'm talking to you about this and not Hudson."

Adler snorted in false amusement, going back to tying up his boots.

"Hudson knows when to stay quiet. Or he would have to deal with a broken nose from me and not Woods for once."

Mason chuckled again, this time with more meaning as he leaned against the wall by him.

"Woods actually told Hudson to shut the fuck up about it. You know we both liked the kid."

Adler finished tying up his laces, tight and practically suffocating his feet. He might have to loosen them later as he glanced up at Mason, before standing up.

"What are you getting at, Mason?"

Mason didn't turn from his steely look, facing him head on.

"Adler, it's natural for you to see them. The two of you were close before—"

"Bell was a means to an end," he cut in, Mason closing his mouth shut with narrowed brown eyes as Adler made a show of looking around the bags. "I only called for them due to this drug Stitch put in me every day, and that's how I saw them everywhere." His hands shook when he reached for a bag making him curse. "Shit, I need a smoke."

Mason stared at him, before turning to a bag and handing him a pack. Adler saying a quiet thanks only to have to search for a lighter. Mason handing one to him again, but pulling back when he reached for it. Adler turned his eyes up towards the man questioningly only to be met with his doubtful expression.

"The doctor's report we have on staff while I was helping you, they found the drug you were speaking of. It was in your bloodstream."

"I told you, they injected me with the stuff while I was there."

"No," Mason says, looking at him carefully, almost. . .consoling. "You were injecting yourself when you were brainwashed, actively doing so the weeks since we rescued you. You were still seeing them everywhere even outside their clutches. Your doses were high and you were going through withdrawals when I was helping you." Mason glanced at his shaking hand holding a cigarette, quieting. "You still are. But it's better than how it was before. If you really only saw them with that—"

"I did," Adler replied sharply, Mason shooting him a look that he didn't care for on how it looked disapproving. "That's all it was. Now give me the lighter." Mason handed it to him, watching him as he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply until he's sure both his lungs were filled. When he still felt Mason's eyes on him, he squinted his eyes at him. "What?"

Mason stared at him silently, a look in his eyes that's making Adler's blood boil because only one person is allowed to look at him like that.

The red moved and his eyes followed to the side, something rising in his chest as he strained his ears.

His ears yearn for a ring yet there is none.

"You're searching for them," Mason says calmly, making Adler shoot his narrowed eyes to him, clenching his jaw and hand around his cigarette. "You putting the drug in yourself wasn't just the brainwashing was it? You wanted to see them. The part that was still you wanted Bell."

He opened his mouth, ready to spit an accusation of Mason seeing things that aren't there(Ha!) or of denial because why would he see Bell of all people—"you really are a piece of shit"—and he's making it seem like he regrets and one thing he has never admitted is regret—

"You always hide."

Adler shut his mouth, muscle in his neck tense as he swallowed. Meeting Mason's eyes that knew—but not like their's, they know him better than anyone and he killed them for it, he killed the only one who understood and threw them off a cliff and couldn't even look as their body fell—before Adler grabbed his bag and walked past him towards the door.

"Let's go," he says, voice rough even to his own ears but devoid of emotion at least. "The faster we leave, the faster we clean up my mess."

"Adler—"

"Leave it alone, Mason."

Mason grabbed his bag, putting a hand to Adler's shoulder and squeezing while shooting him a look. One he ignored as they walked out to meet Hudson and Woods outside, Adler taking a deep inhale of his cigarette.

I miss them too, Mason's eyes said, to comfort.

Adler exhaled smoke harshly out his nose, the way Bell always seemed to be mesmerized by, as he felt something at his throat.

He could almost hear what Bell would say at that.

Monster's don't feel sorrow, Russ. Just like they don't feel lonely, even alone. So, what are you?

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

Alone.

Nothing.

Playing a hand meant for karma's sake.

Fate is laughing at the web it weaved for him.

He would laugh too, if he cared enough to do such a self-loathing thing. But he only had one thought on the helicopter carrier to the destroyed Verdansk.

I didn't kill you for nothing, Bell. I'll fix this. You were never meant to be nothing.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

There's a showdown.

Seeing Stitch—  9̶͎̾.                                                                      ̸̟̤̌̔1̶̖͓̒6̷̻͘

                  1̶̗̀6̴̧͂͌ ̶̴̬̙̼̇͐̾̚                2̴͎̆̿3̸͉̇
̷̦̤͆̆                                                             5̸̲̩̃̿ ̶̪̼̒̊       

—spreads the red and numbers for a few seconds.

The others call his name, he ignores them as he goes headfirst. All around him a firefight, like before, when he was younger and more foolish.

There's a shootout.

Adler hits what he wants.

A shot rings out and hits.

Staggering, his ears ring—they ring—as his eyes turn and sees a figure, eyes widening and rage rising.

The true one he's been chasing all along.

Perseus.

Adler's ears ring but they don't chime. Or tinkle.

He sees their eyes.

Just before his vision fades to black—red—black.

.

         .      

.                                      .

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

                    .                                                   .

.                                               .

          "Hey, Russ."

.                                      .

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

                                                  "Hey, kid."

         .

   .

                                                            .

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

                    .                                   

"Your age caught up with you?"

.

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

A chuckle.                    .

   .

                                                            .

           .             "Not quite. You know how it is."

.

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

                    .                                              

                       A gentle hum. A smile.

.                                      .

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

           .

                             .

"Yes. You were never the type to retire quietly. Always insane for the insane mission."

.

                                                            .

           .

                             .

                    Scarred lips twitched into a knowing smirk.

.

                                                             .

   .             

                                     "Insane. But not stupid, kid. Not my style."

.

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

.

           .

                             .

      A tinkling laugh.

.

                                                             .

   .                  Scarred lips raise higher.

.

                The laugh settles.

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

.

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

.

". . .you shouldn't be here, Russ."

.

                             .

.                                                             .

                         "You have to go back."

.

                             .

.                                                             .

           A head with honey hair shakes.

.      

.                                      .

                                                             .

   .                             "No. Not leaving you, Bell."

.

                                                             .

   .

                                                            . "I've left you too many times."

.

           .

                             .

"You can't come. The world needs you still."

                         .

.                                                          .

         .                          .

                                                            .

                     A scoff.

.

   .

                                                            .

.                                  "I think I've done a lot, personally. Let others take up the mantle for a change."

.

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

      "So, you're giving up?"

.

   .

                                                            .

.

                                                             . "You always were a blunt little shit."

.

.                                                          .

         .                          .

A snort.

.

         .                          .

        "Just being honest."

.

   .

                                                            . A coaxing smile.

"Don't you have something to do?"

.

.                                                          .

         .                          .

                                ". . ."

.

.                                                          .

         .                          .

                                          "I suppose I had plans to bring you flowers."

.

                                                             .

   . "Flowers?"

.

   .

                                                            .

.

                          "The cliff."

"Oh."   .

         .                          .

    Mischievous eyes.

            "Took you long enough."

.

   .

                                                            .

                 Voice soft.

"Is it going to be ones I told you once? When we were alone and I told you that Greek story?"

.

                                               .           Normally glacier eyes swim like a clear lake.

                   "Chloris."

     .

                     A low voice cracks.

.                                                   . "I remember."

         .                         

A shaky smile.

                     "I can't wait than."

.

   .

                                                            .

.

      A soft touch to a scarred cheek.

                                                             .

   .          Tracing lightning upon the face.

                .

   .                          A shuddering gasp as the head tilts towards the warmth.

                                                            .

.

   .

                                                            .

.

                                        "Bell, I—"

.

                .   A gentle shush.

             .

   . A bare face nuzzles against a neck.

                                                            .

"I know. I always knew."

.

                  . Leans back, a gentle smile.

.                                     "I knew you best."

         .                          .

                         A steadying breath that gets caught.

         .                                  .

                .            .            "Right. . ."

          A ghost of a smirk.

        .

                .                       ". . . that photo. "

A questioning hum.

.

   .

                                                            .

             "The third one you took. When we weren't in the safehouse. You still had it. Till the end."

.

   .    A nostalgic smile.

                                                            . .

   .

"It was a good picture."

.

                      . A small sigh.                           .

                                                            .

"Your beautiful, beautiful eyes were out."

                                                            .

.

   .                                            A swallow.

                                                            .

                                     "I'll see it next time than.  .  .  sweetheart."

.

                      .

                                                .                                 

         A knowing smile.

.

                                                                   .

                    "Next time. мой Рассел."

.                                      .

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

                    .                                                   .

.                                               .                                      .

                                                             .

   .

                                                            .

           .

                             .

.                                                             .

                    .                                                   .

.                                               .   

                .

A beep.

✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪ ✪

In a cliff, where one can smell refreshing arctic air and see the arctic sea in the horizon with the sun looking above and casting reflections upon the water, a bush stood.

It stood with it's bare leaves and purple flowers.

Next to it, beside it, small pink and white flowers bloomed.

The wind blew and the leaves and petals waved, as the zippo in the grass remained.

✪

✪

✪

Chloris:
•Chloris, was abducted by Zephyrus, the god of the west, who turned her into a goddess, once they were married, together, they had a son, Karpos, it's thought her home was the Elysian Fields.

Oh my goodness, writing that whole last part made me cry and sob like a baby.

I left the ending ambiguous enough—all of you can guess what happened. This wasn't the original ending—I had something else completely different planned but than the season 6 trailer came out so I had to scrape it and make something new. Even as I was writing the changes, I was bouncing back and forth what to do.

That whole part was unplanned and just came upon me as I wrote.

I left other bits ambiguous, because Adler if no one can tell, hides. So maybe not everything was clearly said so you have to read between the lines.

Cipher was interesting to write too, one who doesn't know Bell but still wanted them near despite it. In comparison to Adler who well—the lot of you get the idea. A lot of irony in this story. At every part.

And Bell is whatever you guys want to be—a hallucination, a ghost, a representation of Adler's regret.

This was an exploration of Adler as a character really—how he would act under torture.

This was supposed to be just 5k words at most. Funny how everything I write just turn longer. But I can't imagine this story without everything I put in here.

I hope you guys enjoyed! This was quite fun to write and it might not be for everybody due to everything that happened within the story—but I really hope you guys like it! 💗

Post of The Ironic Fate of Adler and Bell:

https://animefreak1145.tumblr.com/post/662863824815276032/afshsklakaskl-i-knew-i-forgot-something-i-was

Tags for those here who might wanna read since this COD community is small here: lustandaffections salmonpls xxSoULEvAns Natashaxalden nukelord SnowGoldWaylon ingoadler just_a_f4ngirl