"Bell"

After the Nightmare

February 24, 1981

East Berlin, German Democratic Republic

You stared at your lap, uninteresting as it was as the subway moved your form slightly as you sat alone on your seat. Adler in front of you to your left with his own seat as he smoked without a care in the world as they waited for the signal they are passing into East Berlin. You turned your gaze towards the window, bleak surroundings with grey and dark within these tunnels as they moved as you thought deeply.

The newspaper earlier—it was the same, same author and same headline, it was uncanny—that helped you in decoding for Operation Chaos had nuances where it wasn't quite the same. Some words here and there seemed different as you read the newspaper back to back, as you did before. You were thorough, you had to be and always were when it comes to your work. Leave no stone unturned, as Adler likes to say when it came to how you were.

So, you perhaps were still affected from your nightmare. More than you thought.

Still...the fact they are aiming towards getting Volkov like how your dream did—the same way so far as well when it came to strategy of sneaking in despite the Berlin Wall, it made you uneasy.

It didn't help that the feeling came again, when you were talking to Adler about the mission, he got interrupted by a phone call. Again—not again, because that was fake and this is real but why is everything the same yet not—and unlike before, you stayed where you were and just waited for him to come back so the two of you could finish. Lazar teased you if you were just going to stand there waiting, making your cheeks prickle as you promptly sat down and stuffed pumpkin seeds in your mouth that laid in the desk as you said that you were just thinking about the mission and got lost in it. Lazar only humming, not sounding like he believed you before he turned back to what he was doing in his workshop table.

You don't recall that happening before. You don't think you were standing before but you're not sure. Lazar liked—likes—to tease.

Adler coming back and continuing like the call never happened, sitting across from you and knee brushing against yours as he settled and you kept your knees where they were. He moved his own, mindful of his words to you—promised to not touch, always listens and understands and not a liar—so you don't react with your frayed nerves, the action making your lips twitch up in an odd mix of bitterness and gratefulness as you continued analyzing the documents and details of the mission in front of you, speaking like he never left. Tinted shades watching you as you spoke before he added or answered any questions in that calm, casual tone of his. You didn't ask what the call was about, not feeling the need to. You don't need to know everything.

"Bell, you're a spy, but let's keep it outside the building, not inside. Understand?"

You internally frowned. He wouldn't say that...than again, Adler does like his privacy.

Still, if you asked, the answer would've been different.

Just like now, unlike in the dream where you and Adler sat next to each other in the train—for a woman alone in the subway would look strange but not a couple, the both of you are now separated. You were somewhat petulant at the turn of the events, but that part of the dream was a dream for a reason you suppose. Still, you wonder if you didn't react so violently to his touch and if you denied that the avoidance of touch on your person was unnecessary, that he would've suggested it like he did in the dream. You also wonder if you would stare dumbly at him for the suggestion or actually be able to give a comprehensive answer that his logic is sound like your dream self did.

But...was it a dream?

The uneasiness only grew when the signal they were now under East Berlin, the both of them moving past the civvies in the subway. Adler with his hand pushing against a man's shoulder as his show of excuse me, the German man's eyes narrowing at the action only to loosen when you squeezed past as well with a polite smile his way so he doesn't say anything. It worked, just like last time, you moving to walk pass Lazar and towards Adler to the next cart with Park. Him just speaking and you only mildly listening, your brows furrowing at how his words seemed identical to the one in—

"Bell. You with us?" Adler's voice cut through your thoughts as you focused back in front of you. Park already having the back doors open of the cart so you and him can jump out and meet with Hudson's contact, Greta Keller—the same name, the same bar, everything is the same except minuscule details but than that would mean—"Bell." Adler stressed, cool ice for eyes scrutinizing you under his shades and jaw tight, and oh you're really in trouble now. "You got all what I said, right? We can't half ass this, we got a job to do."

"We got a job to do."

The words seemed to echo back and forth in your head in repeat, in a loop, rewinding and playing and warbling just like those voices you heard when—injection after injection, body spasming uncontrollably, heart jumping out of your chest and skin filled with cold sweat as you were just confused because why is this happening and why are they doing this and is this supposed to help with Perseus—you released a choked gasp, moving a half step back as Adler's brows lowered deeply while Park's own eyes narrowed, confusion lacing her tone.

"Bell? You alright?"

No.

Because if so far everything's the same, than they will meet Volkov and capture him and—

"Damaged goods."

"Only a grave can cure a hunchback."

You withheld a shudder, of fear, of hate, of revulsion because you're not just that and Adler wouldn't think so either—

"It was never personal."

Stop it.

He...he wouldn't.

But if this is like the dream...your prior wide dilated gaze hardened with determination as you moved forward towards the open door, towards the noticeably tense crouched Adler and past the mildly concerned Park. You moved to a crouch next to the man, turning his head towards him as he stared at you quietly, silently—assessing.

"Best we go now right?" You spoke, and you were proud how even and sure it sounded despite how your heart pounded and the sweat formed under your leather gloves. "Can't have our contact waiting long and a night like this should be perfect for a drink for a man like Kraus."

Adler continued to stare at you for few more beats, straightening and jumping off after Park said they have to jump off here. You quickly following after him, the two of you already out with silenced guns. Except this time, as you moved to the left immediately, you told Adler about the patrol to the right and the usage of the passing train to hide themselves. Adler flicked his gaze towards the two Stasi, following your lead soon after to jumping to the next platform.

"Guess you're not completely out of it than. Try to keep up and let's keep it quiet."

"Shouldn't you be keeping up with me?" You let out in a whisper before you could reign it in, teasing. A semblance of how you acted before, before the nightmare or before—"Didn't find you the challenging type. Personally I think I can take out more Stasi than you."

You didn't think much about how brutal your statement could be, you being concerned for a moment as they got up to the next platform and moved forward. Nonetheless, you heard him give a huff out his mouth.

"Don't get cocky, kid."

You squinted in the darkness and saw it, his lips just a dash up before it disappeared. His smiles and smirks always were fleeting. You ate it up each time anyway. He motioned his head forward, two Stasi ahead.

Everything went like before. Walking up silently here, a multi of stabs there. Gunshots too quick for them to react. The way you knew what Adler was going for as he distracted the two Stasi, you grabbing them gun hidden behind him within his pants and shooting—an understanding, fighting back to back as it's meant to be and always was—and now the two of you stood on the rooftops, you with a camera in hand to find Kraus down below the streets. Adler crouched next to you to confirm a positive I.D., ever watchful in his black leather jacket and those suede glasses of his.

You didn't notice your distracting stare, nor how you lifted up the camera in his direction before he put a hand to yours, lowering the camera without even looking in your direction.

"Don't even think about it. Don't waste film and keep your gaze ahead, Bell."

You let out a huff, although a brow rose before you turned your attention back below. Pointedly ignoring the way their gloves hands did nothing from you still feeling the warmth of his touch. Nor how you succeeded last time, in the dream(?).

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Click

"...Did you take a picture of me?"

"It's your good side...?"

"Someone is playing coy today—" Click "Focus, Bell. Kraus can come through any moment. We don't need pictures of me for Park to go through later."

A clearing of throat, polite and amused went through your ears and you realized you didn't turn off your side of comms as heat went through your cheeks when Adler gave you a pointed look.

"Feel free to click away, Bell. Make sure he's not ready either. Maybe you might catch a whiff of a smile in his normally bland face. A miracle that would be and a token for good luck, perhaps."

A bark of a laugh, Lazar booming through your ears. You heard Adler sigh out something or other about you letting them get started.

"Or bad luck. Depending how you see it from our boss man. You should take a few of me when we meet up later, Bell. I'll tell you my good side myself—Park is going through them later."

A scoff, playful and mock disgust and you recognized it as Sims.

"Man, calm down over there. We're on a mission."

"I wasn't—" Lazar cut himself off, defensive. "Sims, I don't know what you're thinking. I was just stating a fact like Adler did."

Sims made a noise of acknowledgment but not one where he believed Lazar's words. You were smiling throughout the whole back and forth, pausing when Adler motioned to you by tapping his ear for you to turn it off, it being comms. You doing so with furrowed brows and based on how Adler was looking, it seemed you were about to get another lecture.

"What did I say last time?"

You knew what he was referring to, but it didn't stop you from looking away with a frown on your lips that only looked like a petulant pout. Your gloved hands loose on the camera.

"To keep it professional..." You heard the man sigh, making you glance up to see Adler staring down at the streets below in his crouched position, his elbow to his knee. With a focus you couldn't only dream to one day have, and his form being lit due to all the city lights as well as spotlights by the wall lighting his face up in a mix of white and blue's. You wanted to take another picture, you kept your hands still though. "Sorry, sir. I guess I was trying to have a bit of fun. I don't want to disappoint you."

Adler's eyes flicked towards you, at least you think they did. You can't quite tell with the shades but you can guess based on how his head tilted just a hint towards you as he seemed to analyze yours words quietly. You kept your hands around the camera still despite your wishes to have this moment captured forever somewhere.

Than, "Don't worry about it, kid." His lips tilted and than you felt pressure on your head, your round eyes staring as you stayed still because if you move he might pull back. And if he pulls back—you inhaled the scent of nicotine and cologne, an intoxicating mix just like the hand to your head. "At least you took my good side. Might've been an issue if my less charming side was at the forefront instead."

And than he pulled his hand back, the moment gone with it when they had to turn their attention back. And you kept back what you wanted to say, your throat feeling stuck at the action.

Both your sides are charming, your other maybe even more so.

You didn't say the words aloud, feeling as if it would be taboo. Similar to if you voiced your disappointment at how you wish he kept his hand there, innocent and inconsequential to him but everything to you.

You made a note to yourself to see the rolls of film later with Park.

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Instead, as the mission continued as it did before with every step the same except with a few minor changes and making you chew harder on your inner lip as it went on, your mind felt like it would burst or break. Whichever came first.

Because, you're starting to think that was no mere dream. But something bigger.

When you met the traitor Richter—you'll kill him now, he threw away your kindness even if it was your mistake you didn't read his folder first—and his eyes widened behind his blackened eyes as he spoke in a mix of fear and trepidation "They're looking for you." You decided to double check your ear, making sure the comms were off before you grabbed him by the collar in a vice grip. He sputtered, your hold tight and nearly choking as your other hand put your silenced pistol to his chin.

"Who's looking for me?"

"I—Let me go, and I'll tell you! I-I swear I told the Stasi nothing of importance."

You weren't amused of his lies.

"Your file says something different. What would happen to you if I tell my colleagues you were willing to sell them out to the KGB?"

His eyes turned frantic than, fear overcoming his face as he shook his head as best he could with your tight grip on him.

"No! You don't understand—I have a family!" You pressed your gun on him more. You don't appreciate when people do that, whether true or false. "Okay, okay! It's...I've seen your picture. Around spaces and people like Volkov, but infinitely more dangerous. You have Perseus looking for you."

You shouldn't have been surprised, but you were all the same. Everything was falling together too much and too close.

"Why?" You pressed.

"I—I don't know! But you seem important to him, they're looking for you everywhere since I think early January. Now please, let me go! I gave you what you wanted!"

Your jaw tensed, letting him go from your hold as you took a step back and Richter took a breath. Relieved to have your gun away from him, his eyes flicking up towards you only to widen just as his mouth opened. Your finger moved and Richter's mouth remained open as his body slumped on the chair, life quickly taken. A mercy despite what he did in compromising those of the BND. A headshot is the best way to go.

An explosion to the chest, and red spreading and going and you felt like choking. Choking on blood, on sobs, on why's on—

You steadied yourself against the table, your chest heaving as you pressed a hand there. As if it would help calm yourself to take slower breaths.

You instead focused on Richter's words for a moment before you having to continue to stealthily move past the Stasi up in the streets to meet up with Lazar and Park.

His words confirmed it. That wasn't a mere dream. And if that wasn't a mere dream than—you shook yourself, moving on with the mission. For if you focused and thought too much on the implications, you're not sure you'll be able to continue.

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Your bleary eyes blinked open, head pounding as you sat on the stiff chair. You moved your hands only to take note they were behind you. You curse at yourself for not reacting sooner in Kraus' house, only for your heart seeming to fall at what you know comes next as a Russian bespectacled man drew close to your tied up form.

"Damaged goods."

"Only a grave can cure a hunchback."

Your eyes met Volkov's as he sat down in front of you, and you felt fire and rage build within for the first time.

"Perseus has a large bounty on your head."

You thought of his words, echoing back and forth around your head. You thought of betrayal, of Arash due to jealousy and you thought of the second with another added more fatal hole to your chest. You thought of broken tools having no use, of loyal tools being envied and abused—you thought of all of this so no one could truly blame you as you glared at the arrogant man.

"Fuck you." You spat, harsh and raging and snarling. Like a feral dog with no master, no leash to tighten or collar around it's neck. Because you're more than damaged goods and a puppet and no one will tell you otherwise.

Volkov's face was indifferent, stoic even, as he turned his head towards one of his goons. Motioning to the right and it was than you noticed that Greta was with you like last time and—

A shot rang out. You felt blood on your face, on your cheeks, on your lips—you were choking and spat blood but you wanted to hear what he has to say, why is he holding you like this in a cruel mockery of Death's Touch—your chest was moving quick as your eyes stared at Greta's still body only for Volkov to force you to look at him again with his gloved hand on your chin.

"She gets it easy," The Russian man toned, accent thick, keeping his hold on you firm. "Don't tempt me to bring out my toys. I will ask again, who do you work for?"

Ask again? He never asked in the first place. Your shock moved to anger again, because how dare he think you will say anything—you were Perseus' right hand, he was your comrade once, you were never meant to be here on this side, you were never one of them—to a man like Volkov.

"I'm not saying shit to you." You stated, calmly. A promise under your threatening tone, this man—this man will get what's coming to him. You grunted when Volkov released you harshly and kicked you down on the chair, his foot to the space of your open legs as he scowled down at you, Russian accent rough and more harsh due to your words.

"You think you will die with dignity here? After what you've done?" Your expression was tight along with your eyes as the man leaned forward, tilting his head. Mocking. "You're only damaged goods. Only a grave can cure a hunchback."

You jolted, wishing to get out from these bindings right now, your face in a frightening scowl even when Volkov put a gun to your face. Even when above on the rooftops with glass were broken with gas canisters, your dangerous gaze did not move from the coughing Volkov. You barely registering when Park came and released you, putting a gun to your hands but with a firm reminder to capture Volkov.

Your face twisted, especially when you glanced towards Greta's body and it was than guilt came over you. And the feeling of self-loathing.

You were at fault. Your emotions, from mere words, made an innocent woman die.

"Damaged goods."

"She's of no use to us anymore."

Her blood is in your hands—and only yours. Because in your dream—vision, life, whatever it was—she lived because you were calm and unfaltering. But you didn't know what you knew now and that is because you—

"Are your hands clean, Bell?"

You...you were...you're just...

"Damaged goods."

"Bell!" You raised your gaze, going towards Adler's form who was behind a crate shooting Russians within the warehouse and oh, you need to catch Volkov! "Come on, or do you think you can't keep up with me after all?"

You blinked, lips parting at his tease—taunt, is he taunting you or is he friendly, you don't know—you shook yourself. And focused. By his side at an instant and shooting down goons and grunts of all sizes in a fast manner.

When it came to the point where it was just you and Volkov, with his taunting words out from his lips and his words echoing in your head, your hands adjusted around your gun. Flexing, thinking—thinking too much and he must've saw it, because he reached into his jacket but you were faster.

Quick to put a hand to his shoulder and pushing him forward, harsh as Park and Adler stepped forward. You distantly heard a word of thanks to you and comments from Adler but you kept thinking of your mistake—of Greta. Her now just being a part of a mountain of mistakes you have. Of thoughts and of regrets.

Because you knew you could save her.

You didn't.

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"Bell"

Second Life

February 25, 1981

CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, "DIE LANDEBAHN"

You were back at the safehouse the next day, except you were at the rooftop in hopes no one will bother you. Legs hanging out from the ledge as you stared blankly ahead at the buildings around the safehouse, covering any chance of beautiful Berlin scenery although you knew it wouldn't be much. Much like the safehouse, Berlin seems to be filled with grey and a dreary atmosphere.

You took in the crisp air as much you could, better than the stuffy and at times musty air within the building. And you need clear air—not arctic no, too fresh and intoxicating with false kindness—you took a shaky inhale, hand rubbing between your brows as you bowed your head.

You came out here to think.

The mission revealed the truth—what you were trying to deny.

The dream showed the future. And due to it showing the future, outside some changes like the voice for Operation Chaos being a man instead of a woman as he said cities and numbers and they actually get to sleep in a hotel nearby and not in the actual safehouse, it showed you the possible paths and choices you have. Or at least one, where you previously let Richter go and Greta live but now being the opposite.

But that's not what you focused on, because the dream was the future which coincided with the past which means...

"We've known each other for years."

"It appears the subject's programming is beginning to take hold."

"Been through Hell in Vietnam together."

"We have a job to do."

Flashes of hallways that smelled like antiseptic, of televisions saying static and showing Vietnam soldiers both U.S. and actual VC, of bloody scalpels and the sensation of dry eyes that you couldn't alleviate because you couldn't move—you were held down from arms, to legs, to your head because you had to look and needles had to go in and you were just a test subject—

Your eye throbbed from memory, along with your head as you winced, hand going to your eye as your head pounded. Your brain seeming to bang against your skull—wanting to be released from this torture of flashbacks and what happened.

You were brainwashed.

You were Perseus's right hand.

You were shot due to envy because of that, twice with one to your arm and another to the side of your chest. Not because of another mission prior to this one you were on.

Vietnam never happened.

You don't know your name.

You don't even know your name—

"Bell."

That's not your name, you don't know your name! You were given it, a new name because of a new home as it were. Like an adopted dog one would find in a shelter—remaking their entire identity and teaching them their new one with treats until they get it right. Except you didn't get treats.

A dull bell chimed in your mind as if it was next to your ears.

You swallowed back frustrated tears, gloved hands moving to your lap and fisting. You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. But how could you!

"I need Bell."

"It was never personal."

Russ—Adler, he lied to you! Still is! You don't understand, if things keep going as they are than you'll just die on a cliff with his touch all around you like last time. A loose end tied. Taken care of. Didn't leave you with dignity to instead let you die on the grounds of the monastery—you wished you simply burned.

Because why, why did he do that?!

You thought of breaks you took outside the safehouse, on the ground as you read a book from Osamu Dazai to Fyodor Dostoyevsky to Leo Tolstoy—all writers with dark thoughts and words if one would pause yet with insight, your gloved hands that were always similar in style to Adler's moving the pages. Adler stepping out and taking his own smoking break from you, talking of your chosen works you would read and he didn't expect those authors would hold your interest. Of him leaning over you when you would show him a line as an example as to why, his chest to your shoulder and you took in his scent—of burnt cigarettes and wood and warm—mindful you don't lean back to take it in more only to fail each time due to you trying to distract by showing him the book you would careless about at that moment. The mere touch of your shoulder to his chest would linger for a few moments than it would probably be deemed professional before he would step back as if nothing happened, nonchalant yet curious when he would tilt his head just so and state quietly they should head back inside before stomping out his cigarette. Holding the door open, a gentlemen, so you could come in and try to focus again and not think of fleeting touches or masculine scents as you worked on decoding.

You thought of gentle words of praise, with equal gentle touches to your shoulder—sometimes with a comforting squeeze and sometimes not. Of a pat to your head and dry wit your way when you would get excited about something or other.

Pressure built in your eyes only to flow freely as you let out a quiet sob.

None of it was real. The both of you were strangers. Not even strangers—enemies. Which was worse, your memories in Vietnam with him were fabricated—of him protecting you and you protecting him, and that's why you're scarred so badly and not because of anything else.

It was a show, a mask, an act that he had to play to make you preen and wag your tail and do the trick he would want you to do. A falsehood. Cruel in everything he did and said to you, because surely he didn't have to go so far to keep you in line? The false interest in your likes and dislikes, the banter when he didn't lecture when he constantly could've—why is he so cruel?

But he's not the only one. Park. Lazar. Sims. They knew too. They know right now.

Pretending as if this is okay, like you're one of them. You're just an outsider, a trespasser, an intruder, a piece of a puzzle that'll never quite fit because you never were even part of the box.

They're cruel.

They're sick.

"Are your hands clean, Bell?"

You looked up, jaw clenching as you sniffled and cleared your face with your gloved hands as all you saw was buildings all around as the wind touched your wet face. Trapped. Your thoughts in disarray—mind warbled and brain muddled.

Because no, your hands aren't clean. Not at all.

You were Perseus' right hand.

You knew about Operation Greenlight.

You thought of the map in Cuba, Hastings dying breaths as your eyes were wide with horror at all the nukes across Europe. All the people that will go with it. You remembered thinking Perseus was a sick man to go so far, to kill civilians—to kill millions of civilians.

And yet...

No, it doesn't change anything. You thought, jaw tight as you clenched your hands and glared ahead. It was wrong. What they did to me—what he did to me after I tried to fix it.

That's right. If things go as before, even if you chose what you knew was right, it'll end with a bullet.

You can't just tell everyone what you know now, who knows how they'll react to them finding out their marionette's strings are cut. You doubt they'll believe you either way if you told them immediately to go to Solovetsky. You'll find yourself in the office again—needle after needle and body convulsing and you asking and pleading why, why, why and Russ, please stop, you don't remember where Perseus is—and who knows what else they will do to you than.

You just have to be a better tool, you determined grimly. Be useful—the best sort of asset one can find. Too important and needed to be thrown away.

"She's of no use to us anymore."

"You are just damaged goods."

You bit your lip, harsh as you shook.

You'll work. You'll help.

Than maybe, maybe you'll belong somewhere.

"What are you doing up there?" Your heart stopped at the curious, low tone from below. Your ears perking at the sound of a lighter clicking open and closed. Your eyes going down to the ground, keeping them carefully blank as you met shades and a scarred face who stared up at you as he inhaled deep. A plume of smoke being released in his next exhale and the wind taking it away. "You've been up there for awhile. Got something on your mind?" You couldn't even reply, you just staring at the man who played his role perfectly in being the concerned friend down below and struck that perhaps for once you had the advantage and him at the disadvantage due to being below you while you looked down at him, only for him to say, "Hold on, I might as well join you." And began climbing up the ladder, cigarette between his teeth.

You moved, standing up and you weren't sure what you were going to do as you made sure your face was clean from tears. You just didn't want him up here because whenever he's near, your thoughts and your mind become more muddled and you just determined what you had to do for yourself. He's not going to help. He's going to see your eyes.

"W-wait, I can go back inside if—"

"Inside?" Adler reached the roof, taking the smoking stick out his mouth as he rose a brow at you and your standing form. "After I just climbed up here? I don't think so. Besides, I can tell something's been on your mind since Volkov. You were rough with him when we transported him to his flight to London."

You pressed your lips. You were pushing Volkov perhaps a tad more violent than necessary around to the car and to his plane where you know he'll be tortured for information. Where he'll break within the next two days, that's all MI6 needed with him.

"Normal forms of interrogation didn't work with you."

You don't know whether to feel prideful at Volkov's failure of keeping information to himself when you couldn't break or to feel regret because if you did, none of this would've happened to you.

Your loyalty cost you tremendously.

You sat back down near the ledge instead of answering, this time with your knees to your chest as you stared ahead. You hearing the inhale and exhale, in and out, and smelling the nicotine come off him from where you sat. Steps came close and you saw on your peripherals tan dress shoes and khaki pants but you kept looking ahead. The smell making your stomach churn.

"He deserved a lot more than me being a little rough with him," you eventually replied, dark and vengeful. Because that is easier to feel than the guilt and self-loathing that are licking at your heels due to what you did—Greta's life on your hands. "What happened. . . I should've kept my cool and Greta would've lived."

He hummed, attentive. A breath out and another cloud along with it. You put your face closer to your knees to hide the scent.

"He deserved worse," Adler agreed and you didn't react to that. He never seemed interested to do Park's bidding about Volkov in the first place. "But men like him, he would've offed her no matter what you would've said, kid. You did good. Better than me. Wouldn't lose a night's sleep if a bullet met that man's head."

Would you lose sleep if you did that to me? You thinned your lips, pressing hard and closed your eyes as you rested your head on your knees. Did you?

It doesn't matter what he says. You know the truth. You're at fault for what happened to Greta. Because you finally let your emotions flow out and fall over you like an avalanche, uncaring who you kill or injure as it went down. Or perhaps an eruption would be more accurate. Volcanoes are more destructive.

You kept silent, so he spoke again.

"Maybe MI6 knows how to do something right. Maybe he's getting what he deserves right now as we speak. Let's just hope he says something useful after all this trouble." You registered that he was comforting you. The only explanation for why you're so quiet and not replying back, lost in guilt but it's more than that. More than the mission. You wonder once more why he's bothering with this, with you. Why not just push you inside the safehouse and say get back to work, it'd be easier. He than huffed. "Alright. I think it's best you tell me what's really wrong. You have been acting strange since yesterday. You haven't been truthful, Bell." He said your name in quiet disappointment.

You opened your eyes, snapping towards him as irritation flowed through because how dare he talk about truth, only to stop with wide eyes and blood pounding. Instead of your earlier position, where you felt you had a chance of being the one in control from your height, he stood over you. Glasses shadowing his eyes that are no doubt keeping you in place, the rough terrain of his scars clear for you to see due to his head being tilted down towards you. Cigarette in between his lips due to his hand keeping it there, him also seeming to pause and you felt tense. Because you were sitting below and he stood over you, next to you—if you leaned your head just a tad to the side you would meet his thigh.

You didn't though, you just kept staring up as your blood pumped in your chest, your veins, your head because what is this, what is he doing to you, he hurt you, he lies, he's cruel with kindness.

You spotted his brow rise a hint.

"Well?" He said, tone low and intoxicating with how naturally husky it was due to years of cigarette's. Your mouth felt dry. You turned your head back forward, heat from your neck spreading to your ears and face as you moved it to behind your knees. You took a breath because that odd crack in the air was gone.

"I told you already, it was the nightmare—"

"You missed something else that happened in there? Because for people like us, we can't let nightmares affect our job."

He won't let up. That's just not something he does, he always get what he wants. You know this. Just as you know he's too perceptive for you, too apathetic and stoic where you can't tell what he could possibly be thinking because of those damned glasses—they were a shield, a weapon, to hide true thoughts and emotions and keep others on their toes yet if off, you will be met with orbs that will pierce and cut and tear you down from just a look—you really want to scream than.

You let out the first thing you thought of.

"That man, Volkov, was in it."

You felt the air stopped than, just as you felt without looking that his eyes were sharp on your form.

"In your nightmare?" You nodded and you felt him shift, his agitation being able to be felt without him having to say anything. You're playing a dangerous game. "Why didn't you say this before? You saw his picture before we started the mission."

"Why would I?" You challenged, peering up at him. "It'd be natural to dream about someone I dug up Intel for, wouldn't it? It doesn't matter in the end, he's done and gone."

"It must matter, since you seemed to be lost in thought last night. Even now." He paused, "Was he the one that shot you?" In the nightmare.

No, that was you. Volkov just beat me a little  which was kinder.

"It was never personal."

It was you.

Instead, "The chest. I got shot there." You said breathily, staring at nothing as the words flowed out your mouth as the memory flowed in your mind despite you wishing for it to disappear. "I felt it all. My brain came up with all the perfect feelings and sensations one might feel when getting shot there. I was...choking. Couldn't talk. Couldn't scream. The blood...it...got in the way of all that." All that red. "That, that may be one of the worst ways to die. Slow. And you..." you trailed off, not feeling the need to continue. You told him already that he held you, you're not going to explain how that felt too.

You don't want to.

Adler was silent, face carefully stoic and giving away nothing but you realized what he must be thinking.

Your nightmare must be a twisted construction of what happened to you in Trabzon. Volkov instead of Arash because of your hard work decoding and maybe because you knew Volkov better once. Adler holding you as you bled because he actually did, except it wasn't as a friend and instead an agent analyzing what's the best way to keep you alive enough to tell all your secrets.

You wonder if he's concerned at how close you made the story seem. Than, a darker thought, you wonder if he'll take you inside and give you a dose to erase all this completely. Would you let him? How far are you willing to put up with this charade? For a chance to live?

"Did he say anything?" He asked, carefully casual and inquisitive but you know better now. You actually wanted to laugh, bitter and shallow as it would might sound.

Because of course, of course he just wants to know if you remember something. Anything. All for the man he's been trying to catch for longer than a decade, an obsession that poisons those around him to even catch a whiff of Perseus. Abandon all ethics and morals because who cares because it gets the job done and he'll do whatever it takes.

You never realized just how spiteful you could be, because your lips twisted into a smile as you looked up at him.

"Nothing for you to worry about."

The amount of times he said that before your death, or something similar and now being able to throw it back at him shouldn't have been as satisfying as it was.

And stupidly dangerous.

The glasses perched on his head slipped down from having his head tilted towards you just as the air turned stifling when glaciers for eyes made you freeze.

"You wanna run that by me again?" You still were on the ledge, all it would take is a push and you'll be nothing but a disappointment and a failure. A body to be disposed of and forgotten about. Do they even know your name? "It sounds like you're trying to be smart with me, Bell. But that can't be right. Although you sound mighty defensive right now. You want to share?"

"I just meant it was nothing." You answered rapidly and Adler hummed, not sounding as if he believed you and you quickly changed tactics. Not having any choice. "He—Volkov just said I was damaged, alright?" You turned your head, attempting to look upset which didn't take much. The words seem to wish to make a home in your head. You felt his probing stare lessen back to curious. "It's stupid, I know. But. . . it doesn't change the fact that I almost got shot again, in the same spot too from where he was aiming, and you guys narrowly making it in time."

"We did. You're alive."

Barely.

You don't even know why they bothered to save you. How would they risk saving you when you probably knew Volkov—which you did once. Volkov could've said anything to you that would've shown you what happened to you, what your past allegiance was—yet they came anyways. They should've let you die. The risk too great, all they would need is Volkov. If they pushed more out of him, he would've said Solovetsky too you're sure.

None of this made sense, why go so far for you?

"You should've left me." You admit softly, and you felt hands on your shoulders and twisting to face a crouched Adler and you were met with his taut face, jaw tight and crease in his brows and feel his breath on you if you concentrated and this is— "What are you—"

"I didn't realize you were the type to wallow. You want to be stuck in self-pity? Lay down and die—for what, kid? You going soft on me like Sims?" He tightened his hold on your shoulders, a semblance of a shake as if that would take it away as you stared dumbly. "Tell me now if you're not able to go through all this. Have you stick with Sims in the safehouse. No more field missions and you'll stay inside. Is that what you want?"

What you want? What you want to know is why he's so close? Why does he care so much? What is this?

Your brain registered his words though, you quickly shaking your head before you can stop it.

"No! I—I want to keep going on missions with you." You meant to keep the last two words to yourself, hold them back. But it slipped through, like how you're slipping. You were sure of your feelings towards the man in front of you one moment and yet he knows how to expertly move you around and be twisted around in strings and bewildered to how you got here. You don't understand him, nor his motives. All you know is you have to be useful. Have to live. All you need to focus on. You moved your gloved hands to his wrists, his eyes scarcely following the action before going back to your face and lingering. "You can trust me, Adler. I have your back."

A beat passed. You staring at him and him doing the same. His creased brows relaxed just as he moved to pull back, nodding as he took a last drag of his cigarette.

"Good," he stood, hand outstretched to your face and you took it as he helped you up. He turned his back to you, flicking the cigarette down and squishing it under his foot. "Come on, kid. And next time," he turned his head and you saw his eyes were hidden again, "Tell me if something's bothering you. That's all I ask."

And than he went down the ladder as you stood there, lost and confused, gloved hand still feeling his touch and clenching(to take it away or keep it longer, you're not sure). Out of depth, even in this second life, all because of a man.

It was than you determined another aspect you have to accomplish in making sure you live. Not only be a treasured tool, but make sure Adler won't choose to kill you when the time comes.

"Maybe another life, kid."

Than let it be this one, Russ.

.

.

.

This was supposed to be longer but my brain and need to put out stuff is stronger.

I felt like this was everywhere—but due to how Bell is trying to recover herself and her brain is literally fried, maybe it fits.

Anyways, Adler is cruel. But Bell can be too. Two peas in a pod really.

Hope you guys enjoyed! This is gonna be a weird long journey.