John paid a woman to come and do his laundry because the last time he’d tried to do it himself, he’d

somehow managed to flood his house so badly that there were still patches of upholstery that felt damp
and sudsy. He’d come home to find bubbles pouring out of his door and down the steps, and three of his
dogs wandering around the yard looking like show-winning French poodles.

The next day, he’d put an ad in the Barrow Post and now Alice Fern came over three times a week and
puttered about in the closet space next to the kitchen.

He tried to be out of the house while she did. She liked to talk.

John went to open the door to his house and he heard her voice through the walls. Dropping his hand,
he backpedalled a little, skittering down the steps to the porch and taking three more steps towards his
van before he realized that running away from his house from one little old lady wasn’t polite and,
anyway, he was tired and hungry and it was his damn house. Alice couldn’t be much longer. If he waited
in his truck, maybe did a little maintenance on the tires, he’d probably catch her leaving, but not much
else.

Then again – Alice was coming down from town just to do his laundry. Calculating the distance, John
winced a little and wandered grudgingly back up the steps.

When he opened the door, just for an instant, John thought he’d walked into the wrong house by
mistake.

William was cornered on the sofa. He’d balanced a mug of something (John hadn’t even known he’d had
mugs) on the knee of a pair of expensive-looking trousers and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow,
and one of the dog’s heads was drooling all over his shoes. Alice chatted merrily like this was a perfectly
normal situation, and Will seemed at home and relaxed, and John briefly catered the idea of slipping
away, unseen.

Then the spy’s eyes shot up to his, and his mouth narrowed in a recognizable grimace that promised he
wouldn’t make it a step out.

John folded his arms and grinned. Try it, he cocked his head.

Alice paused her talking midway through a spiel about her grandchildren (he lost track of how many she
had, but it was around twenty) to say, “your clothes are all folded on the bed, you just need to put them
away.”

“I’ll help,” said Will immediately, setting the mug down onto the table.

Unperturbed, Alice modified a coaster out of a piece of newspaper and laughed, “oh, there’s no need,
dear, you sit and rest – what did you say your name was again? You’re not from Barrow, are you?”

Will Dayton, spy extraordinaire and KGB-trained double-crosser, had been outtalked by a little old
grandmother from Barrow, Alaska. John tried not to laugh as he turned away, crossed the room and
disappeared into the pocket bedroom at the other end of the house. Alice’s voice followed him.

“—and that’s my nephew Oliver, he’s studying Law in Washington—“

Gingerly, he tapped the door closed behind him.

John’s bedroom lived up to the word. He had a rough, teak bed just big enough for two, a dresser, and
one battered night-stand with a half empty cigar box and a lopsided lamp. Six cardboard boxes stood
sentry beneath the window, and clothes bulged from the top. One of these days, he should probably get
around to unpacking them.

It looked like he was sticking around here for a while. And living out of boxes wasn’t convenient.

Tomorrow. He’d do it tomorrow.

He looked away from the boxes and to the pile of clothing squared away on top of his dresser, and he
frowned. Reaching over, he pulled out a thin-striped, soft-looking shirt from between layers of plaid and
cotton and held it up. It wasn’t one of his – too small in the shoulders, the material too fine, too thick.
John frowned at it for a second.

Will’s voice drifted through, “—friends—” and cups clinked.

A small, quiet thought sidled into his brain and pointed out that it was about Ocelot’s size.

Hm.

Well.

It had to happen sometime. The way Will breezed in and out of here, he was bound to start forgetting
things, leaving traces of him behind, and it wasn’t dangerous yet. William was layers and layers deep. A
single piece of clothing was a bad goose chase, in terms of knowing him.

He thumbed the material , feeling a little old and a little foolish, with too many jumping nerves for
either. John put it down again, turned to his shirts, sorted them and folded them and cleared off the
bed. William’s shirt stayed on the mattress, a crumpled ball of stripes, and he planned on leaving it
there.

A car started outside, and Alice’s stout Jeep trundled down the road. He heard footsteps.

Without really thinking about it, John picked up the shirt and shoved it into a dresser-drawer seconds
before William appeared in the doorway.

“… Before you do anything,” John pointed out, “it was your own damn fault for coming here without
checking first.”

William cursed in Russian, took a step and John’s back hit the mattress.

......

William left at midnight, and John made a crack about Cinderella to his long, naked back. Russians had
no sense of humour: William just snorted and dressed (more efficiently than he’d undressed; one of the
buttons on his shirt was gone) and he departed like a spirit. Moments later, he heard the front door
lock, and the sound of the key sliding on the hardwood.

He rolled onto his stomach, hissing as his hip throbbed. Whatever Ocelot had done with his teeth there
was, clearly, not good for his bones, but damn, John didn’t think he’d stop him if he wanted to do it
again. The kid had techniques for everything and, so long as he didn’t think about where he’d learned
them, it was kind of endearing, not kind of sad.

William hadn’t seemed sure of himself.

John debated a shower. He pushed himself up on his elbow and scruffed his hand through his hair.

Tucked beneath the pillow, a strip of bright red cloth caught the moonlight. He frowned, jerking it loose
and twisted it around his fingers.

As a general rule, John didn’t wear ties. He was sure that he didn’t have any that felt like knitted water,
either, and as the fabric slithered over his fingers, he thought of the shirt in the dresser. Second thing
that Will had left behind today. This was becoming a habit.

He tossed it across the room.

 Prompt: striped Russian shirt

 Liquid/Wolf

“I should really go,” said Will.

John topped off his glass with the last of the whiskey and settled back on his ugly green sofa. “It’s cold
out,” he said calmly. William didn’t think pointing out the frosted windows was sarcastic enough, so he
settled for a roll of his eyes and hunching further into his body.

Washington was waiting, and he really should go.

John’s arm settled around William’s shoulders.

Washington can wait, he thought, and justified it with a pointed glance outside. Flurried snow crowded
onto the window pane and the wind banged on the walls – Washington, as he understood it, would not
want to lose their best asset in a tailspin off the frozen road. Naturally, having this country’s best
interests in mind, he should—

Teeth nibbled at a tender, tingling spot beneath his ear. A breath razed up his throat, and he didn’t
know, he really didn’t know, how he’d managed to twist into John’s lap from his position, how he
managed to find his mouth, how John’s shirt burst open at the waist when he tugged at it.
John, laughing, hooked his arms around his waist and hauled him up, “bed,” he said, while kissing him,
teeth and tongue clipping the word short.

They never made it to bed, but the hallway had a carpet in it, and Will pretended.

...

They were a sweaty, tangled mess. William carded his hand through John’s dark hair, combing it away
from his face. The soldier hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes. If it wasn’t for his pulse, William
would’ve thought he’d died.

“Bed,” he said, mimicking John, “bed.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” said the soldier, and something in William blushed.

It was probably just that hand of John’s, rough and intimate, cupping and rubbing between his legs until
William’s vision sparked.

...

They made it to bed. Eventually.

It took a few more tries and, by the end, William’s legs were shaking so badly that John had to help him.
Not really, as it turned out, the best situation – John might have been tough and gruff and all man, but
his knees had buckled, too.

The storm beat a tree into submission and the branches danced in the light on the floor.

“What time is it?” he asked, murmured into John’s shoulder.

“Late,” said John, without looking, “still dark. See?”

It was still dark outside, that was true, but he’d probably been there for too long and Washington wasn’t
going to wait forever. He settled down to doze, cheek curled into the side of John’s neck, and at some
point between the howling wind and John’s heartbeat, William slept dreamlessly.

When he woke up, he took a look at the window, frowned and said, “… is it still dark out?”

“Do you see any sun?” John asked, amused, “it’s still dark. We should stay in bed until the sun rises.”

“When’s that?” he joked, grinning a little. “I do have a schedule to keep.”

John shrugged, and the movement rippled through Will, “not long,” he said, “month, month and a half.”

William blinked. The words sank in slowly.

Month, month and a half. Month, month and a half. The sun’s been out all this time and he’s just—
“Bastard,” William said, and hit him, rolled, found his mouth again. John laughed, all rangy, lean muscle
pressed to his body, and he had to say, a month and a half in bed with him didn’t sound so bad.

Will had to be in Washington in an hour, and this time, the old ‘I missed my flight’ excuse wasn’t going
to work. He’d told him they’d brought a guard down to Barrow to make sure he came along.

“Like I’m some sort of child,” said Will, sniffing as he bent over the side of the bed, “I would just stay
here, but—”

Work, John understood. He eyed William’s back a moment longer, reflecting that the marks he’d left on
Will’s spine could’ve been avoided, and then pushed himself up and off the bed. William kept looking for
his trousers, half-stretched off the mattress, inches of him poking out from beneath the sheets.

John found them hooked over his dresser table and tossed them to him.

“Dunno how they ended up over here,” said John, and missed the look Will gave him.

“Neither do I,” William pulled them up, buttoned.

John didn’t note the sarcasm, and he didn’t answer. He brushed his hand over a snow-frosted window
pane, clearing condensation off so he could glance outside, and all that he could see from here were
bent-backed trees and branches and snow. The flight to Washington was probably going to be a bitch
until they left Barrow behind.

“You need warm clothing for tonight,” said John, without turning from the window, “loan you a jacket?”

It was too risky, too meaningful, but the kid had to wear something. He’d freeze out there.

William took a minute longer than necessary to answer, “… My shirt’s pretty warm,” he said, in that
bland sort of way he had when he was trying to avoid information, “I don’t need a thicker coat than I
have.”

John shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked back to the bed, slid back between the sheets. The
bare-bone walls didn’t provide much warmth in a storm, neither did the blankets, but he supposed he
had ice in his veins, growing up here. As a child, he could remember not really caring or minding that it
was snowing.

He felt the cold acutely now, and the warmth of Ocelot’s body more so.

Turning his head, he watched the spy dress standing up, no shivering, back straight as a pole. His shirt –
like the pants – had somehow ended up on the other side of the room. Ocelot picked it up with two
fingers, gave it a snap to shake it out, and John noticed, grinning, the pattern.

“Is that a telnyashka?” he asked.

Ocelot froze then, as if he hadn’t, shrugged his shoulders, “… it’s warm,” he said, defensively brisk,
“we’re not all cavemen, John.”
“Woodsman,” he corrected, for his own amusement, “a telnyashka, Ocelot?”

“It’s warm,” the spy insisted, and dragged the material over his head. His hair stuck up afterwards,
peacock-ruffled, falling over his brow and against his jaw and everywhere. He looked just like—

“Mh. Telnyashkas are Russian navy, aren’t they?” John said, “Нас мало, но мы в тельняшках. Didn’t
think… you’d go for something so obvious.”

Ocelot rolled down the shirt, silent. The bitemarks disappeared. John sort of missed looking at them,
missed the nakedness of his skin, but he kept himself still in bed out of the knowledge that getting up
would definitely lead to Ocelot missing his flight. The telnyashka probably couldn’t take much more
abuse, anyway.

Will strapped on holsters, hid knives, and turned to leave the room.

“Ocelot—” and John waited while he turned, and shot him a quick, casual grin, “—you don’t need to
advertise. Safe trip, kid.”

Ocelot’s face relaxed, and he said nothing, it was too late to say anything. John heard him walking, spurs
jangling – the door opened, then closed.

John grinned to himself and wondered – just before he drifted off to sleep – when the kid would come
around again.

It was very quiet without him here.

There are certain moments so strong that you know they happened before you know why. Just two
hours into April 3rd, 1969, William Dayton sat up ruler-straight and stared out of the helicopter window
like he’d been woken from a nap. Barrow, Alaska, was a muddy and frosty smear, and without any
reason for it, his heart started to hurt.

Something wasn’t… right.

His fingers worried at the seatbelt, tearing at the fraying edge. His eyes stayed stuck to the window, and
he saw the village appear out of nowhere, houses dotted grey in the snow, and he saw the pathway that
would take him to John’s house, and his stomach pinched tight.

Sure. Now was the time to be nervous. John would laugh.

Of course he’d laugh.

William made himself sit back into the seat. The plane skimmed over turbulence, vibrated between
columns of sulky clouds, and circled around to land, and it landed, with no degree of gentleness, like a
Russian tank going over rocks. His teeth rattled. His bones rattled. His heart still hurt, deeply and
without reason, and he reflected that it would probably kill John to read he’d died of a heart-attack
whilst coming to see him. It was like that saying – he couldn’t remember it now, but it was appropriate.
“Sorry about the landing, sir,” said the pilot, and William, eager to think of something else, said, “It’s
fine. Landing here is never easy.”

The pilot grinned at him. In the gloom, he couldn’t see his face; a lot of dark, curling hair, a flash of white
teeth, and the man is a glimpse of a memory. William smiled at him, easing the door open,

Some men dealt with their problems by drinking anything 40 proof and above; some men dealt with
them by going out, finding pliancy and warmth in the bar crowd, and some just liked to spar and the first
two types of men to a bloody pulp. James wasn’t either of the three, and there were no good bars near
the base anyway, so he lifted weights.

The bench stuck to his back, and his biceps could’ve actually been on fire, and he would’ve taken it as a
delightfully brief pain. He didn’t stop, focusing on the cracked tile directly above his head. Raise. Drop.
Raise. Drop.

Sweat glossed his brow.

Raise.

David had no fucking right to take his team away.

Drop.

And they’d gone, the traitors.

Raise – his forearms screamed – and drop, the metal brushing his chest, making him grunt. David’s face
swam at the forefront of his mind, and he gritted his teeth and shoved the bar back up again.

He imagined that he’d driven it right into that bastard’s jaw, and knocked out a few of his teeth. Not that
it would matter. David would still get the support, the pity, of anyone he saw, because he was David and
perfect and everyone liked David; everyone wanted to follow him, come hell and high water—

The weight wouldn’t go down again. Liquid jerked his head up, blinking sweat furiously out of his eyes.

He came face to face with a strained-looking shirt, a rather generous eyeful of frilly lace and a fighting
attempt to contain a body curved like a violin.

And he was so tired, even that didn’t do much for him. He tugged at the bar in irritation, scowling.

Sniper Wolf gave no indication that she’d seen it, that she knew she was stopping, or that her shirt was
about to fall apart at the seams. “Boss,” she said, her voice strangely accentless, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he said, and jerked the bar free, “I’m busy. Is there something you need?” he
couldn’t stop the bitter little note that entered his voice, “oh, has Solid sent you here? Does he want to
rub it in a little more?”
“Rub what in?” Wolf said, perplexed, “what are you talking about?”

Liquid grunted and went to press the bar back down, but she’s quicker than he is, and her body bent in
ways he couldn’t possibly mimic, and she’s suddenly there, pressed up against his front like a blanket.
He had to stop the bar in mid-descent.

Goddamnit, it burned. Liquid counted to ten, willing the shaking in his forearms to stop just a little bit,
and glared at her as if to say, ‘move, or it’s coming down on your head’. He meant it, too.

Wolf looked up. She eyed the barbell. Then she looked at him, her dark eyes thoughtful, and in the end,
she slipped up a further few inches – just until her head was out from beneath the barbell – and stayed.

James didn’t have the breath to swear, but his glare could’ve melted rock. His fingers gripped the barbell
even more tightly.

Not worth the embarrassment of dropping it, thought James and kept the barbell up though his
forearms shook.

Wolf curled her head up and smiled. Her perfume, something thick and heady with flowers, cut into his
concentration something awful, more so than the heat of her skin, the softness of her mouth. She kissed
his jaw, his mouth, his neck.

It was all right as far as kisses went, but James would’ve rather not been holding the weight in the first
place; trust her to find the most inopportune moment to come back and grovel for his forgiveness. He
stiffened his jaw, refusing to give even a little bit, digging his heels into the floor as his tired muscles
ached. Eventually, she’d get bored and leave, and he could put it down while she was out of view.

But Wolf didn’t move, and it got very tiring, holding it up. James settled it on the rack above his head
and dropped his arms at his side.

“I love you, boss,” said Wolf.

It hurt to hear.

He didn’t answer.

Wolf was very quiet for two or three minutes, and then she sat up, crawling onto his stomach, straddling
him. Her skin shone with rain and sweat – he hadn’t even bothered asking her how the mission had
gone, which was slightly shameful, but the image of David giving orders to his men clawed his throat to
ribbons, and didn’t she understand that? It wasn’t something he enjoyed thinking about, much less
having shoved into his face. And then, to patch it up with ‘I love you’…

“I don’t need your pity, wolf,” said James. It came out far more bitter and vicious than he intended.

She recoiled as though slapped, and then hunkered down. “You’re mine,” she said, her eyes earnest
with her words, “mine. My alpha. My boss. My mate.”
“Stop it.” Tiredly, James took hold of her wrists and – with a grimace – shoved her off his lap. He didn’t
feel guilty when she thudded into the floor, although perhaps a little less of a push would’ve worked
but, anyway, it was her own bloody fault.

Wolf scrambled to her feet, caught his hand. She tugged on his arm to pull herself up, and his already-
screaming muscles felt like they’d just been run through with hot needles, and most of his self-control
went into not slapping her away. Standing still, he waited until she stood in front of him and then turned
his back on her.

This time, Wolf didn’t chase him.

Somehow, it was much more oppressive that way.

“… I will wait for your orders, boss,” said Wolf. Her voice was brief and childishly shy. “I’m not going on
the mission. I do not obey silly little boys.”

James dragged a towel around his neck and thought, in a perfect world. “Oh? You don’t like David?”

“He isn’t a leader.” Wolf shuffled past his vision and away from him. “I only follow leaders.”

He felt a little better hearing it. Not alright, but… It’s a start.

“Wolf?”

At the door, she stopped and didn’t turn. He could see her arm trembling, her fingers unsteady on the
doorknob, and a wave of some unknown and vast emotion swamped him.

“…Dinner?” he said.

Wolf’s arm steadied, “… my pleasure,” said the sniper, her voice so obviously delighted that he had to
believe it.

When they fuck, John’s thinking of someone else.

Kaz can’t really explain how he knows, but it’s common knowledge, and they share it between them like
a child. John tries to pretend like he isn’t seeing someone else whenever he looks at Kaz; and when he
does look at him, not at his imaginary, ghostly someone, Kaz can tell that he is.

John never looks disappointed.

He never loses a hand in poker either.

John’s fingers slip between his and bridge their hands together. It’s rowdy in the canteen, but it always
is on Monday when the fresh produce comes in, and John has been hauling boxes in with the rest of the
juniors. He can smell the sawdust and mango on his clothes – it’ll probably be mango for dinner tonight.
Ripe, juicy ones, from somewhere far from here. John never tells him where the food comes from, and
Kazuhira entertains the image of John haggling at a scream-and-shout farmers’ market in his army
greens.

“What’re you smiling at?” John asks, and Kaz – intent on immortalizing John with a box of strawberries
and a slouch cap – just grins.

John has the perfect perplexed expression down. His brows raise and his eyes cloud over, and Kaz gets
the impression that he’s looking at a dog who’s just seen its reflection in the mirror.

A big, scary, toothy guard dog, of course, but a dog nonetheless.

He slides beneath John’s arm. Nobody dares look his way, and it’s strange and confusing to hold so
much freedom, so much power. He could, Kaz thinks, climb over John right on the table next to them,
and nobody would care. The respect rolls off them.

(Not for him, never for him, but he’s John’s, so it’s almost the same thing, right?

Kaz doesn’t think of answers.)

“I have paperwork to do,” says John, and doesn’t move.

Kazuhira grins, “… did you do the budget, at least?”

John makes a face like a monkey tasting lemon, “… First thing,” he promises. He means it, it shines out
of his words, but he’ll get to his office, sit down and forget. The biggest child of all is John, forget the
twelve-year-olds that have just started with machine guns.

“Do it,” Kaz orders, and kisses him, and if John’s slow to respond, doesn’t seem sure he wants to, it’s
okay.

John pulls back quick. Kaz’s mouth burns where John’s beard scraped, and there it is, just a flash, of
something less than disappointment and more than heartbreak.

“The budget,” Kaz reminds him, and John flashes a grin, and walks away.

He turns to oversee the packing procedure, and it’s only a little part of him, now, that wonders who the
hell John thinks about when they fuck.