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Chapter Text

On a beautiful, sunny day, one Vasily Agapov realized with horror that he had forgotten his matches. He stood with the unlit cigarette in hand, his excitement much diminished, and resisted the urge to toss it into the water. His boat rocked placidly, the frigid air stung his cheeks, and Vasily did what he often did in the face of hardship. He set his jaw, nodded to himself, and got to work. The nets would not fill themselves, and the day would drag along whether he complained or not. 

Vasily loved the motorboat. Loved the life that came with it, harsh and uncompromising as it was. He checked the gill nets one more time before slumping back down on the crate where he took his breaks, unscrewed his thermos and took a cautious sip of black tea. As expected, he still managed to scald his tongue, and he tutted, setting it aside without its cover for a few moments. He rummaged inside his burlap bag for his canteen with water, but his fingers brushed against an even greater treasure. He dug the forgotten matchbox out of the bag with a toothy smile and fumbled for his cigarettes. The first drag was heavenly; he leaned back and let his eyes fall shut, a small break before the day ran along. 

Vasily loved many things. His wife, God rest her soul, the dog she fed scraps to that had stayed even after she had passed, his motorboat. There were few things he loved more than a good night’s sleep. He was not amused, then, not at all, when the village of Novososnovaya had gone into a frenzy when distant booms echoed from the horizon. Said booms did not wake poor Vasily up, no; it was that old crone Alyona, screeching about invasions from the West and other such nonsense. It was her usual drivel, so Vasily had rolled over and begged sleep to take him once more. No such luck, and dawn had seen Vasily and his fellow villagers waiting with bated breath for any news. Not that any official news would ever arrive; the military base that curled around the monastery like a snake was steeped so deep into secrecy that Vasily felt uneasy even living near it. He loved his motherland as much as any self-respecting Russian did; its government, however, was one he kept away from as much as humanly possible. 

Eventually, dawn had broken, Alyona had tutted and snapped at her wife-in-law as she was ushered back inside, and life went on in Novososnovaya, granted with slightly more hushed conversations than the norm. Vasily, sleep-deprived and resentful, had trudged along towards his boat. 

He tried a sip from his tea again. Much better. It warmed his bones and chased away the leftover taste of tobacco, and Vasily rubbed his eyes, silently gathering courage to get up and check the gill nets again. 

Something knocked against the boat, startled him so hard he almost dropped his thermos. He screwed the lid back on and set it down absently, bracing against the crate and standing to look over the side. Vasily’s mouth dropped open, and to his dying day he would deny the sound that wrenched out of his throat. 

A hand was clutching the edge of the boat, the other beating weakly against it. Vasily stood like an idiot for a good few seconds before he lurched into action, leaning forward and gripping the man’s jacket, dragging him up and overboard. The boat lurched, the man coughed, and Vasily kept panicking. 

“Where the hell did you come from, son?”

The man did not answer. Obviously. He coughed, threw up a painful amount of water, and fell forward, face down. He did not move again. The sun beat down on Vasily, who stood frozen in his little boat, off the coast of the Solovetsky islands. 

                                                                                      Five Years Later

He treasures the mornings most of all. New York is never quiet, not really, but in the early morning, sat down on the fire escape with his legs dangling over the edge, chewing on a cigarette, he almost feels like a person.

He calls himself Yakov. He swirls the name around in the privacy of his mind, sometimes,  tries it aloud quietly in front of the mirror after brushing his teeth. He’s tried other names too, which had the same effect as Yakov is currently having. An underwhelming blank. He spits the name out in the sink and walks off. 

Be– Yakov rolls his shoulders and yawns. The sun is starting to come up, peeking behind the buildings, and Yakov ducks his head to avoid its sting. It’s 6:00, Brooklyn is blinking away the crust in its eyes, and Yakov is aiming for a full day’s work. 

What he has discovered, much to his surprise, is that people like him. Yakov brushes a hand along his chin and squints at his reflection. Rubs at the scar curled around the left side of his throat, raised and ugly. He doesn’t see it. A lady with glimmering eyes like sapphires he’d helped off the sidewalk after she’d stumbled had told him he’s got a kind face. Your mama’s lucky to have you, she’d smiled, I can tell. Yakov doesn’t think about his mom often. There’s nothing to think about. Nothing to remember. 

He slips into his prized Carhartt jacket. It was a bargain, second-hand but in good enough condition for him to bother. He’d bought it on his first week in America. The time for reminiscence is done when he slips out the door, down the mouldy staircase and out into the biting air. He clears his head, relaxes his frown. He’s got a job to do.    

The coffee is still too hot, warming his hands through the styrofoam cup. Yakov can just barely see hints of his reflection on its surface, leaning against a lamppost outside the bodega along with a few other men. He recognizes two of them, Tamaz and Marco; they’re both blinking up at the sky, and Tamaz gives him a tired smile once he spots Yakov. This corner is known and well-loved; if a contractor’s looking for help, he’ll drive by around 6:30.

 Yakov takes a sip of his cup and rolls his shoulders as if to physically dislodge his nerves. It got bad last night, worse than he’d had in months. He was with Adler on the cliffside again, but instead of shooting at him and leaving him for dead, Adler sat him down and told him exactly what the CIA had done to Bell, meticulously, painstakingly precise, before and after they took his mind. Bell had covered his ears, had screamed to drown him out, and Adler had laughed. 

He doesn’t think the memories are ever coming back. He sees flashes in his sleep, though, drags himself half dead through the fights of Vietnam, shoves open bunker doors and finds himself staring down at bloody knees, sniffling and whiny, a woman tutting and wiping his tears. She goes away whenever he tries to look at her. Other times he finds himself in unfamiliar streets, freezing and grimy, terrified and hiding from the militsiya behind corners.

Adler had chosen Brooklyn for Bell’s backstory. When Yakov first set foot in it, he could recognize streets he’d never walked through before, had slept peacefully on his first night with the window cranked open and the city sounds lulling him to sleep, like he’d been doing it all his life. It had been stupid to come here, suicidal even. Yakov is smart, resourceful, still draws breath because he has skills and knows how to use them. But Russell Adler is smarter. Faster. If he wanted Yakov back, he’d already be strapped to a chair and–

A blue van pulls up, passenger window rolled down. 

“Demo job in Clinton Hill. Need three.”

Yakov raises his hand in a daze. The guy points at him, Marco, and an older man Yakov hasn’t seen before. They pile in, no names exchanged, and the van rolls down the street. 

Marco nudges his shoulder, frowning when Yakov twitches. “Alright?” he asks quietly. Yakov must look worse than he thought for even Marco to figure him out. 

“Rough night,” he manages, finds it in himself to smile. It comes out looking more like a grimace, and Marco squeezes his shoulder. 

“Y’should come by sometime. Doesn’t do ye any favors, all holed up.”

Marco’s nice like that. He doesn’t know Yakov all that well, hasn’t done more than exchange good mornings outside Yakov’s building, but he’s trying to invite him over every other day. Yakov was suspicious at first. He’d tailed Marco for a few days, had been convinced he’d spot him squeezed into some corner of a coffeeshop meeting with a CIA agent. But if Marco’s a spy, he’s a good one, and all Yakov’s seen him do is try to find work, hang out with some guys in corner bars, stumble home always with a smile on his face. 

“Maybe sometime,” he murmurs, an empty platitude, and Marco seems to know it. He pats Yakov’s shoulder and leans back, eyeing the streets through the van’s grimy window. Yakov stares at the side of his profile, the mole in the corner of his jaw. Then averts his eyes and stares stubbornly down at his hands. 

The van rounds a corner and passes by a small coffee shop, nestled between the buildings. A man sips his coffee silently, a finger idly tracing the cup’s rim. Russell Adler lets out a quiet sigh and reaches for his cigarettes.

Chapter Text

The first time he saw Bell after the Solovetsky fiasco, Russell was in his office. He’d been holed up in there for most of the night, poring over the same documents, convinced that this time, he’d find something different. There must be a clue he’d missed, he was sure of it. Perseus remained a ghost, but after months of search, the ghost had shifted from one maniac to an organization full of them, and Russell was at the end of his rope. He’d saved the world, he’d been told, but all he could do was see it falling apart in the back of his mind. It would, if he didn’t stop Perseus. He saved the world, they assured him. It didn’t feel like much of a victory, most days. 

The pack was almost empty, and he took out a smoke, balancing it precariously on the overflowing ashtray. The glow of the lamp made him dizzy, and he dragged a hand over his face. He looked at his reflection on the glass door, the blinds pulled down. He looked like shit, even more than usual. His scar took monstrous properties in the dim light, as if reflecting something hidden deep under the surface. 

Someone was standing behind him, just out of focus. Russell’s head swivelled back, but of course the office was empty aside from him. He’d gone too long without sleep, and tricks of the light gave way to flights of fancy. He looked back at his reflection, but the person was still there. Russell leaned forward, narrowed his eyes. The person’s face was hidden in the shadows, only a thin neck and protruding collarbones visible. The flimsy shirt he wore was torn and dirty, slipping down one shoulder, too big. A thin hand was hanging limply just next to Russell’s shoulder, black and blue, almost no unmarked skin visible. The hand was ruined, some fingers bent horrifically, the tips of the fingers bloody, missing the nails. 

The world slowed. Man and ghost stood still, alone after everything. Russell found himself afraid to look away, but he still turned his head, as if this time he’d see Bell, solid behind him. He didn’t. When he looked back at his reflection, he was alone again. 

Life goes on, but Russell still sees him at the corner of his eye on the street, brushes past him and startles, turns to see a completely different man walking away. He hears him when it’s too quiet, sluggish and delirious in Russell’s ears, seizing on the gurney and stumbling over false memories, again and again. He sees him in his sleep; those are the worst nights. Russell is holding the syringe, the knife, the pliers, and Bell is thrashing underneath him, snapping, cursing, crying, screaming, then going quiet again. Then the scene shifts, and they’re in the CIA safehouse, Bell humming under his breath while he works out clues, or tries to strike up a conversation with Mason or Woods, tries so hard to be part of the team, not understanding why he’s always brushed off, always out of the loop. Sees the kid’s eyes widen, fear and betrayal and resignation all clashing into one horrid mix, too late to draw his gun on that cliffside at Solovetsky. The bullet had torn through the side of his throat, and Bell had lain on his back, trying to put pressure on the wound, eyes squeezed shut, as if he’d been afraid to see the next bullet coming. It hadn’t. Russell couldn’t do it. He’d rolled the kid over the edge, saw those lanky limbs thrash before he broke the water’s surface. A goddamn coward, Russell was, letting nature do his dirty work. And after Kuzmin, still strapped down on that chair, Mason’s face swimming in his vision, Bell had laughed and laughed in his ears. 

It’s so cold. 

He doesn’t know where they’ve taken him now. They haven’t let him sleep for three days already, and he’s crying under the bag they threw over his face. He used to be touchy about it, crying. He’d done so much of it in his early years that he’d told himself he was done with that; he had a steady job and a roof over his head, people who cared, a bright future promised to him. He has no future now. All he’s got is his own mind, the secrets he’s fought so hard to keep, the pain they’ve put him through to get them. He’s not staying quiet for his country. It’s what they think keeps his lips sealed, what they use to taunt and humiliate him. He’s doing it for Ivan. Ivan, who was there when he was so close to giving up, who gripped his hand and pulled him out, became what nobody ever bothered to be in his miserable life. A friend, a mentor, a father. He knows he won’t talk. And by now, they must know it too.

He doesn’t know what they’ll do next. His imagination is sometimes worse, when they finally leave him beaten and shaking, when he curls in the corner and all he has to think about is what’s coming next. They’d burst in and beaten him again, cuffed his limp hands behind his back and fit a bag over his head. He doesn’t remember the transport. He must’ve blacked out, and it’s sad, how comforting the thought is, that he might have gotten a little rest, at last. 

The door creaks open. He ducks his head and shakes, fights the tears, lets his mind retreat and hide deep inside his skull, tucked into a narrow crevice where nothing can reach it. 

The bag is yanked off his face, and he blinks against the harsh lights. The man with the scar smiles nastily at him. 

It begins. 

Yakov thinks he must have been screaming for a while. His throat is raw when he jerks awake, fights against the hands holding him down for a few seconds before he realizes it’s just the thin covers tangled around his legs. A pleasant chill is breezing through the crack in the window, and Yakov lies back down. Drunken voices pass by from below, mixing with the harsh breaths that fill the bedroom. He’s shaking with the aftereffects of his nightmare, and Yakov covers his eyes, pressing the lower parts of his palms against them. He keeps at it until he sees constellations bloom beneath his eyelids, peels them open to see odd shapes dancing across the ceiling. 

Yakov crawls out of bed and gets on his knees, peels up the mattress and digs a hand under it. He feels around, drags his little notebook out and clicks on the little plastic lamp he’d gotten at Bargain Barn about a year ago. He sits back against the bed and leafs through it. It’s a mess, nothing like the neat scrawl he’d take his notes in when he worked for the CIA. The words blur together in some pages, sentences pause before they’re finished, and some pages are torn and crinkled, ruined from when he was crying so hard he’d messed them up. There’s always a pen by his nightstand, and he reaches up for it, popping the cap off with his teeth. 

Ivan. That’s a new one. He’d… suspected, drawing from half-memories and fever dreams, that he was close to the man Adler had hunted for so many years. Closer than a subordinate would usually be, even a favored one. The Bic flies across the page, and Yakov pushes his brain to remember what he’d felt, thinking about that man in the scene that had played in his sleep. Hope, delirious hope that he’d be saved, against all odds. Pride, in keeping his secrets and making Ivan proud. Love, deeper than Yakov had expected, innocent and all-consuming. He wonders if Ivan had felt the same. If he’d thought of Yakov, or whatever his name back then was, as a son. 

He scoffs, lips curling up in a bitter smile. As if it matters. He’d made his choice, back at that safehouse. Betrayed his country twice over, betrayed Perseus. Figures, that his father figure would be a homicidal maniac with plans of world domination. Yakov wonders if he used to be the same. 

It’s pitch dark and Yakov’s walking home, the plastic bag with his groceries swinging as he walks, hanging from his curled fingers. He hadn’t found work that day, spent the daylight hours paranoid and peeking from behind the newspapers he’d stuck to his windows. The day’s shittiness crescendoed at night, with nightmares so vivid they had Yakov hiding curled under the bed for a good half hour, like a stupid child that had fancied up a monster in his head and was convinced it was after him. He sat in the kitchen, flipping through the ratty notebook. He’d written a few lines but given it up when he started to shake too hard for the words to come out. He leaves it on the table for later, rolls up a few paper notes and tucks them in his back pocket before climbing down the stairs for the bodega.

He can’t stay home when he’s stressed. The walls close in on him, the family upstairs transforms into a special unit ready to bust down his door. He hadn’t really needed anything, but he’d bought some milk, those Famous Amos cookies he likes, and a bottle of Welsh’s apple juice. His part of Bushwick is not the best, never really calm, but tonight it’s oddly quiet. It sets his nerves on fire, and he hugs the bag to his chest as he climbs the stairs.

He locked the door, he’s sure of it. But the key turns once and the door creaks open all the same, and Yakov stands there frozen, key still inside the lock and holding the door half closed, just a crack letting the kitchen light out into the hallway. He’s… being paranoid again. Surely. Why would anybody break in, Yakov is just… just a man. Nobody’s after him, why would they be. Bell is dead and sleeping with the fishes. 

He could run. Drop the bag and make a mad dash down the stairs, take Marco up on his offer and crash at his place. But if they found his apartment, they’ll find him wherever he goes next. Maybe there’s someone waiting for him down the stairs too. Yakov grips his bag tighter and pushes the door open wider slowly. Drops the key into his pocket and shuts the door with his back. 

Russell Adler is sitting in his kitchen, leafing through Yakov’s notebook.