Chapter three: I don't mind if you come a bit closer (Song: 'Roll the dice' by Shy FX ft. Lily Allen)

Ukraine had been much colder than Berlin. To be expected, but not a thrill. Nearly getting shot in a nightmarish fake American main street, not to be expected, but a thrill. Bell had proved herself, finally. Her mind had been blissfully blank, body responding to shots and sounds before she could think. She nearly shot Woods at one point, in the dance of death with her Diamatti, and the rhythm of the bullets overtaking her senses.

"What the hell was that shooting, Bell?"

He'd been impressed and shaken by the time they were in the helicopter, flying away from their would-be tomb.

"Try not to get in my way next time."

He glared at her and she relented.

"I am sorry. We both got the job done, and did it excellently. You're more used to it than I am."

"What do you mean? Weren't you in 'Nam?"

Bell blinked, a flash of gunfire and jungle appearing in her vision.

"Well, of course. That was a long time ago."

"Muscle memory," Woods said, grinning. "Never leaves you."

Bell smiled back, hiding the nausea rising in her stomach. Being in the copter didn't help her sudden flashback. She could hear the bullets drilling, hear the yells of confusion, hear the screams, smell the napalm, smell the blood, smell the rotten flesh—

"Bell, well done."

Adler's voice snapped her out of it for a moment. He always seemed to know; her face must be an open book. That and the fact she had to take pills every night to cope with her increasingly vivid flashbacks.

"Thanks."

Woods was complaining about Hudson under his breath, hard to hear over the propeller blades. Bell didn't know what to think. Hudson meant nothing to her; she barely knew the man. That he had omitted his own knowledge was not entirely surprising. What difference would it have made? In a way, what difference did it even make now? They didn't know where Perseus was. They were still fumbling in the dark, chasing a spectre.

Sometimes she dreamt about Perseus. Never really seeing him, only a blur, but she felt the familiar jolt of recognition as he turned to look at her. The same scene over and over. He walked towards her and put an arm round her, kissing both her cheeks. Always the same words whispered in Russian:

"Little one, how good to see you. You've done me proud."

And she awoke in a sweat, head throbbing.

On the plane back, the atmosphere was on the verge of giving Bell an electric shock. A faint familiar tinkling somewhere behind her made her jump around.

Woods was pouring out some whiskey into a flask in Mason's hands. He raised the bottle to the flask and chinked it, before putting the half bottle to his lips and gulping from it. Bell stared, watching him swig and swig, till he winced and swallowed, and straightened himself up. Rolling his neck round, his gaze finally fell on Bell.

Without missing a beat, he held out the bottle to her. She looked into the amber black sea through the neck, looking glistening and warm, mild waves of slosh breaking against the glass as the plane twisted round. Yes, Bell wanted to drown in that comfort.

She threw back a couple of shots then passed the whiskey back to Woods. He pushed it back to her.

"You've earned it."

Blood was beginning to pound fiercer in her ears, her blood heating up and rushing round her body. The ringing of bullets bouncing off metal, bangs of flash grenades exploding all around them, starting spinning round her mind. It hit her how close she had been to death. But she was alive. It felt untrue.

Bell took another large gulp from the whiskey and praised whatever God was out there that she was still around to taste the fiery liquor.

Woods took his bottle back, quite significantly depleted from when he'd passed it over, and took another swig himself. Bell rested her head on the back of her seat and stared out the window beside Mason. The dark clouds pressing round them almost looked like mushroom clouds.

Bell felt ill thinking about the bomb. What the hell were they going to do? Or more importantly, what was Perseus going to do?

Then she felt something warm behind her, and some fabric brush her hair.

"Well, well, are we having Hudson's wake early?"

Adler's voice vibrated through his chest, hovering inches above her. She felt her stomach flip.

"If I have it my way…" Woods muttered.

A large tumbler of whiskey appeared in Bell's line of vision.

"Well, I'd prefer a wake to Perseus. Hudson can wait."

"I'd drink to that as well," Mason murmured.

Woods raised the mostly empty bottle to Adler's glass and clinked.

Bell leaned back, pushing back against Adler's chest. He looked down at her, and she swore she could see his eyes flash behind his tinted lenses.

"Thirsty, Bell?"

He held the glass in front of her. She took it and had a sip. Then another.

"Got any cards?" she asked.

Woods gave her a bit of a look, as if it was a literal wake and she was interrupting the most solemn moment. But to Bell, she needed to forget it, for one moment. She needed fun. To make the next hour go by without any more suffocating storms of vengeful silence.

Mason reached under his seat, then threw out a pack he had in his bag.

"Poker?" Adler suggested.

"Strip poker?" Bell quipped.

Bell winked at him, though it became more of a blink as she fluttered her eyelashes up at him. Again, in spite of his shades, Bell could see his eyes widen a little and his body tensed. He didn't know what to make of her. Maybe she was being too bold in front of the boys. But surely Adler knew her humour enough by now.

"Maybe that's why you can't remember 'Nam," Woods muttered, "traumatic memory of Adler's junk mid game at camp?"

Bell looked straight at him and put her tongue in her cheek.

"I only suggested playing it to get a look at your 'Nam scars, baby."

Woods stared back at her as though another one of her bullets had just skimmed past his ear. Then Mason began to laugh.

"Bell, when you choose to talk, you sure talk."

"I'm still a bit too cold from freezing my ass off waiting for you two to not get shredded in there," Adler said shortly. "Regular poker. Anyone beat me, they can have the rest of the bottle."

He raised his glass.

"I'll take those stakes," Bell said.

"Lazar, you in?" Woods shouted, startling Lazar from his nap.

He was appointed dealer, and set the cards out on the back of a frag crate.

Bell knew her poker, and only traded in twice. Within four turns she was the only one left standing against Adler. She had a faint memory of a shadowy room and a gang of men, all folding before her. She had played the game so long she couldn't even remember when she'd started. How had taught her? Papa. It had been a long time since she'd seen her father. She missed him, even if she could barely picture him in her mind right now. He'd been tough, she knew as her body became tense thinking about him; she had become good because he had wanted her to be good, had played with her over and over, made her feel the shame of losing until she never lost again.

"Remember, malyshka, you need to be strong. You will be the best of the best. No-one can stop you but yourself."

"Down to the last stand. Folding, Bell?"

Adler's voice cut through the echo in her mind.

Bell looked at her hand. Lazar's cards were beat. There were only two real possibilities in Adler's hand that she could think of that could maybe beat hers. Or else an absolute knockout hand that you would get in maybe one in a thousand games, but not this one. Unless there was no God after all.

"No, I think I'm good. Ready to bet your booze and your boxers?"

Adler raised an eyebrow.

"Raising the stakes for me? You must be confident. Or bluffing badly. Sure, Bell, I'm confident enough to take that."

Bell laid her hand out. Three of a kind. She waited, pulse slightly quickening, for Adler to turn his over.

Three of a kind.

Lazar whistled. Both beat his two pair. Bell was staring a little blankly at the cards in front of her: three tens. Adler had three aces.

But was it ace high or low?

"Ace low, ace low!" Woods jeered.

Bell smiled at the mostly sincere glint in his eyes. He had been distracted for a moment; it made her feel some weird warmth, like camaraderie. He had saved her life as much as she had saved his. Nothing particularly new in war but it created an intangible bond, all the same. Just like the one between her and Adler, as much as he sometimes put a wall up to try and block it.

She decided she was going to make it hard for him to pretend it wasn't there.

"Let's settle it simply; Adler, you can keep the whiskey, as long as you give up the underwear."

"I think you deserve to see the package sober, don't you?"

Bell was lost for a response. He had got her— even his cards had got her.

"Is that a promise, Adler? Or a threat?"

Woods was about to laugh, a little unsure of himself. Lazar and Mason looked at each other, at once confused and intrigued. They didn't want whatever was happening between Bell and Adler to happen, but they also kind of did. Bell herself was unsure. She'd had plenty of time to think about it, since their slightly too cozy encounter the months before. It had been pushed back, archived into a part of her subconscious, as unrealistic. Yet here he was, again a little too close, and she felt herself getting hotter and hotter.

"Let's all keep it professional, shall we?"

His favourite phrase. Bell laughed at that, and the tense jerk in atmosphere twisted back into an easy, settled one. Adler took a few sips of his whiskey then passed it to Lazar, as thanks for being the dealer. Lazar took a little bit then passed it on to Mason.

"Nearly there," he said, pointing out the window at the glittering lights far below, growing closer.

"Good ol' Western civilisation," Woods muttered.

"It's the best we can get here," Adler said. "Berlin's beginning to feel more home than home."

Bell heard the resignation in his voice; not a weary one, or a particularly sad one. It was acceptance more than defeat. She wondered how he lived when he was ever off the clock. He was a lonely man; all men so invested in their work were. Failure to put down roots was the main reason someone got into this line of business. A desire to roam. Others were tailor made for it and knew no other home, trapped in it like a cage, unable to break free from their loyal ties no matter how much they longed to establish roots. Which was worse? Neither were entirely free of their shadows, no matter how many they shot down or how many secrets they whispered to their bosses.

Bell hadn't chosen this life but had chosen to stay with it. Her skills were only good for shady dealings; you didn't need to decrypt terrorist plans in a comfortable civil service office. If she went round axing soldiers and busting in their kneecaps in day to day life, she would be arrested. Only because of the CIA was she able to show off her unique skillset. Her sense of pride came from what she did, as terrible as it was when she thought about it. She didn't know who she would be if she wasn't of use. Just somebody floating through without a purpose.

When they landed at Templehof, she was ready to leap off the plane, begging for breath. The stale air and copious amounts of whiskey had gotten to her. She managed to knock into Adler as she jumped up.

"Watch it."

He caught her arm. Bell tried to rip it out of his grip, instinctively, and flexed her fist.

"Wow, slow down. I just didn't want you to trip over your laces, or mine."

Bell rolled her eyes and head back, and sighed, though in her slightly drunken state she felt her head tilt back a little bit too far, and her mouth flop open a little too wide. She probably looked like Red Skelton.

"My deepest and sincerest apologies," she slurred, deliberately playing the drunk, and mock bowed to him.

"I humbly accept them. Bell, you earned your little party but we need to focus. We've got a job to do."

As soon as he said those few words, her mind suddenly went clear. She stared at him, not seeing him, and felt herself start to walk, half-floating, half-dreaming. She was heading down the stairs, then walked alongside Lazar, then was climbing into a car and he was driving her and Park away.

"Are you alright, Bell?" Park asked, voice soft. "I'm sure that was a lot of stress in there. Nothing you can't handle, of course. But a shock all the same."

Park seemed far away from her, and yet her voice was clear and sharp, boring through the white noise filling Bell's skull. Bell would snap out of it soon. This had been happening to her since Vietnam. Shell shock, they would have called it back in the day, she'd seen it on many an old soldier's face. They had coped with the worst of the worst; she could too.

"Yeah, Park, thank you. It was a lot, all the same. Like being on a movie set, not entirely real…"

"I can imagine it. When Woods was talking on the radio I couldn't quite believe what he was telling us."

"It's a shame," Lazar said, "we missed a chance to get a good hamburger."

Park sighed.

"Can't you think of anything but your stomach for once?"

"I think of many other things, Park, you know that."

Park said nothing, but Bell caught her smiling out the window as she glanced over at her. The ringing in Bell's head was beginning to subside, and the world was becoming much more tangible to her. Lazar had rolled his window down and Bell felt the icy breeze on her cheeks, flowing through her hair. She was still alive, she was still here. She just had to keep on living.

Why she had to keep on living, she could figure out later.