Feb 14, 1963 10:23 AM: On Valentine's Day, 1963, at Gamma Base (Fort Sam Houston), undercover agent Pasha—disguised as janitor Elias Porter—bides his time in the break room, awaiting his chance to infiltrate Project Glow-Up, the top-secret gamma bomb experiment. As he observes the key players—Bruce Banner, Betty Ross, General Ross, and the enigmatic Adam Brashear—Pasha finds himself unexpectedly drawn to Brashear, rumored to be Kennedy’s personal envoy. Meanwhile, Samuel Sterns, a man with his own hidden agenda, looms as a potential threat. The air is thick with tension, secrets, and the stirrings of something world-changing.
Something is about to go very wrong in the 60s.
DATE
Feb 14, 1963 10:23 AM
CLIME
wi-cloudy
TEMP
42 °
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SCENESET
AFTERNOON;
The break room smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, a haze of light seeping through the slatted blinds on the single narrow window. A tinny radio on the counter played a crackling ballad by Patsy Cline, barely audible over the low murmur of conversations outside. The clatter of trays and cutlery echoed from the mess hall down the corridor, but here in the break room, it was a moment of quiet before the storm.
A man in a beige maintenance jumpsuit stood near the old percolator, his back to the door. His badge read Elias Porter, and his dark curls peeked out from under his cap. He moved with a casual grace, pouring a cup of coffee with one hand while slipping a sugar packet into his pocket with the other. No one paid him any mind. A janitor, a ghost in the shell of science and war.
Pasha, known in certain circles as Agent Midnight, aka the Eternal Child, let the heat of the coffee warm his fingers momentarily, the coffee went cold very quickly in his clutch as he listened. Every conversation, every footstep, every flickering of fluorescent light above—it all mattered. He was waiting. Project Glow-Up was housed within the walls of Fort Sam Houston, aka Gamma Base, behind layers of reinforced doors and classified security clearances. But security was never perfect. Not against him.
He took a slow sip, scanning the room subtly as he leaned against the counter.
Doctor Bruce Banner was somewhere within these halls, no doubt preparing for today’s experiment. The man was brilliant but too distracted, too wrapped up in his work and his affections for Doctor Betty Ross to recognize the vultures circling above. General ‘Thunderbolt’ Ross, ever the overbearing shadow, had been pacing the corridors barking orders. His daughter, Betty, was one of the few voices of reason in this chaotic crucible, but even she couldn’t quell the growing tensions. Adam Brashear, the man of science, the man of integrity, was here as well, a consultant in name but a guardian in truth.
Adam’s presence would complicated things just as much as would the presence of the Eternal Child. Brashear would theoretically be obstacle to the Eternal Child's appointed task, but the Child (Pasha) found himself intrigued by the black man who seemed to command so much respect on the base, surely there was more to him then met the eye; Rumor had it that Bashear was here on President Kennedy's request. There was something magnetic about the man—the way his mind worked, and the the way Bashear carried himself Pasha had noticed; He was handsome too. Pasha was a master of deception, but Adam Brashear made him wish, just for a moment, that he didn’t have to lie.
The radio crackled again, and a voice interrupted the song.
"In other news, President Kennedy is expected to address the nation later today regarding increased tensions in Southeast Asia..."
Pasha barely heard it. His focus was on the approaching footsteps outside.
Samuel Sterns.
A man with a mind too sharp for his own good, with fingers in places they shouldn’t be. He had the look of someone playing a very long game, and Pasha had seen men like him before. Opportunists. Survivors. A problem. The night before Pasha had almost secured the files he needed when Sterns unexpected entered the lab Pasha had worked so hard to be assigned to that night to clean; Stern's reaction to Pasha's presence told him the man was up to something. Was Sterns possibly another foreign asset? Surely Pasha couldn't be the only one.
The pieces were moving. Pasha could feel it, like the shift in air before a storm. He set his coffee down, fingers tingling with the faintest echo of darkforce energy. Just a little longer. Then he would make his move.
And then, the world would change.
Doctor Ross:: Betty paused just outside the break room, arms crossed, her gaze sharp as she faced her father. “Everything is on schedule, Dad,” she said, keeping her voice measured. “Bruce is handling the experiment just fine.”
Thunderbolt Ross snorted. “Fine? That boy is working himself into the ground. I need results, Betty. We all do.”
She took a breath, tempering her frustration. “I know you do. But you’re pushing him too hard. He’s barely sleeping, barely eating. You know how much he wants your approval, and you’re using that against him. You’re using me against him.”
Her father’s expression hardened, but she pressed on. “Bruce doesn’t need more pressure—he needs support. And if this project is so important, maybe you should try motivating him with respect instead of dangling your approval like a prize.”
Ross exhaled sharply. “I don’t have time for this, Betty.”
She shook her head, stepping past him. “No, you never do.”
With that, she continued on walking down the hall leaving the breakroom and her father behind.
General Ross:: Ross’s jaw clenched as he watched Betty walk off down the hallway, her words echoing in his head. Exploiting Bruce? Using her? That was damn near insubordination, and saying it out in the open—where anyone could hear—was outright unacceptable.
His boots struck hard against the tile as he stormed after her, closing the distance in long, determined strides. “Betty!” His voice was a low growl, sharp enough to cut through the chatter of nearby personnel. “You do not get to walk away from me after a statement like that.”
She didn’t slow, so he stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. His expression was set in granite, eyes burning with the controlled fury of a man used to command. “I don’t have time for your moralizing, Betty. You think I’m pushing Banner too hard? Fine. But this is bigger than you, or him, or whatever soft-hearted fantasy you have about how things should be.” His voice lowered, dangerous now. “This project matters. To this country. To the world. And if Banner has to prove himself to me to get it done, so be it.”
He exhaled sharply, straightening his posture. “So don’t you ever question my leadership like that again. Not in public. Not where people can hear.” His gaze flickered, just for a second, to the passing officers who were no doubt pretending not to listen.
Ross stepped back, face hard, voice cold. “Get your head in the game, Doctor Ross. Or stay the hell out of my way.”
midNight:: Pasha sipped his coffee, the corners of his mouth twitching as he observed the little family drama unfolding just beyond the break room door. Americans—so loud, so messy with their emotions. Doctor Ross was practically spitting at her father, and the old general, face red as borscht, looked as though he might burst a blood vessel.
He smirked to himself. This is why Russia is winning the space race. While the Americans bickered like schoolchildren, the Soviet Union pressed forward with purpose. Science was the domain of men, of order and discipline—not of daughters squabbling with their fathers in government hallways. She should be at home making borscht, not meddling in matters of war.
Pasha exhaled slowly, stirring his coffee with a stolen sugar packet. Poor Laika, he mused with a touch of mock solemnity. No supper for her that night. The Americans called their dog “Lucky” or some other foolish thing—but our dog went to space.
His gaze flicked to the wall clock. Time was moving, and so should he. The blueprints. That was the true purpose of the night. Somewhere behind all these walls and security clearances were the schematics for Project Glow-Up—the next step in America’s terrifying little arms race. Not just gamma radiation, but dark energy, a force barely understood yet being played with like a child handling matches in a dry forest.
He had spent weeks in this disguise, listening, waiting. Tonight, he would finally move. Security was tight, but security was never perfect. Not against him. The darkforce in his veins gave him an advantage no metal lock or code could prevent. He only needed a few minutes in the restricted archives, and the blueprints would be his.
And yet, his thoughts—annoyingly—drifted elsewhere. To Adam Brashear. He had not yet spoken to the man, but something about him called to Pasha, like a magnetic pull just beyond reach. Focus, he scolded himself. After tonight, none of this will matter.
But deep down, he wondered if he was lying to himself.
Blue Marvel:: Adam Bashear had misgivings about the whole project, and none of his complaints would have been lodged at Bruce Banner. The young man was a genius and deserved to be treated better. His issue was with General Ross. It was one thing to be results oriented, but it was another to demand those results at the expense of safety and protocol. The President had asked him to participate, but not to "make waves." Kennedy had his reasons, but Adam had to admit, if only to himself, that he chafed under the directive. He respected the man's wisdom and caution, he had to represent the entire country, and some of it was hostile to men like him.
He watched the exchange between Ross and his daughter. Adam bristled at the way Ross spoke to Betty. It was more than just his position as general or his role as her father, ultimately he did not respect her, her intelligence, or her concern for Bruce. He gave her a sympathetic smile, thinking he doubted she saw it. There was a lot on her mind.
As Doctor and General left the breakroom, Adam turned his attention to the other man in the room. He should have been unremarkable, just a janitor sneaking a coffee break, but that was only if the observer was someone like General Ross. Adam had been taught to never look down on others. His father had warned him. "No matter how extraordinary you are, Adam, people will still consider you lesser because of who you are, don't make of kicking down based on appearances."
It was sound advice, but it was not easy to stay humble. However, it was vitally important to do so. Adam was confident about what he knew and what he could do, but to exert himself too forcefully would potentially make things much harder for others who, while capable, were subject to the whims of the men around them.
"I wonder if he even knew we were here," Adam said to the other man. He let the observation hang in the air, as he reached for a coffee cup. He could have meant the way the general treated his daughter, or the fact that they were not worthy of his notice in the first place. In older times, the hired help was completely invisible.
NOTES:: I am threading that needle of Blue Marvel being a man of principle and not making waves.
rID: 13r2-p183 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha arched a brow, swirling the dregs of his coffee idly as the other man spoke. His amusement lingered, but he masked it beneath a neutral expression, offering Adam the kind of vague, knowing smile that could mean anything—or nothing at all.
“Oh, he knew,” Pasha murmured, his voice carrying the slightest trace of an accent. “Men like him, they always know. They just don’t show.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching the door where Ross and his daughter had disappeared. “If we were not here, if no one was watching? Perhaps he would be softer. But men like Ross, they think tenderness is weakness, and weakness is unforgivable.” His lips curled at the thought, a mixture of irony and knowing disdain. “He commands with a clenched fist because he believes that is the only way to hold power.”
Pasha’s gaze flicked briefly to Adam’s hands as he reached for a cup. Strong hands. Steady. Hands of a man who could hold power but did not clench his fists so desperately around it. That was… interesting.
“Invisible people hear everything,” Pasha added, his fingers tapping against the rim of his cup. “And sometimes, they decide to act.”
He set the cup down, pushing off the counter with easy grace. The game had begun, and Bashear, whether he realized it or not, was already a piece on the board.
"Forgive me, I am Elias Porter Sir... by your badge I can see you are not invisible person... I am custodial engineer... is big title for someone who pushes broom."
Pasha smiled slightly, he had congenial express which was both warm and welcoming as he did a quick glance over Bashear, approving of every inch he saw, the man was quite the specimen and he would have to be being a person of color in America. Bashear's id showed he had a clearance equal to Banner himself, very very impressive.
So who was Bashear? What was his piece on the board?
Blue Marvel:: "You have a point," Adam said, following Porter's gaze. Ross was just the type of man to put on a performance to keep everyone in line. "Dressing down his daughter would make it clear to everyone that he does not play favorites. He was used to people pointing out that they were ignoring him as a sign of putting him in his place. Usually, he paid them little heed unless it truly mattered.
He took in the man who had identified himself as Elias Porter, he had the type of eyes that held you captive, and he would have stared into them except it would have been rude. The name was an aptronym, but while it was appropriate to his profession, Adam doubted it was a family profession despite his being a civil engineer, a nice term for a janitor. He might have thought that his calling was as a dancer. "I would imagine that sometimes you can get more accomplished if people are not paying attention. Sometimes when you have a title people feel you don't deserve, it makes it much more difficult, but the success is all the sweeter when you prevail against the headwinds."
Sometimes he wondered if being ordinary wasn't the better path, there would be nothing to prove to others or endure the doubts cast on one's abilities. Did Porter have aspirations he was frustrated at not achieving? He certainly was aware of his place in society and was willing to use that to his advantage. Adam was sure there was more to his man than met the eye.
"I think the importance of your job cannot be overstated, this is a scientific establishment part of its operation depends on you."
rID: 13r3-p189 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha’s lips parted faintly in surprise, though he quickly masked it beneath a slow, considering smile. He had expected a casual dismissal or, at best, polite indifference. Praise, genuine praise, was unexpected. The rarest kind of flattery—the kind without condescension. He found it oddly disarming.
The slightest tilt of his head accompanied a humble shrug. “You are very kind, Mister Bashear.” His accent softened slightly, less theatrical now, more natural. “Though I imagine few would see it that way. Most would not look at a man with a mop and think of importance.” He glanced at the faint ring of coffee on the counter, as though contemplating something distant. “But perhaps... perhaps you are right. Maybe the small cogs do matter.”
His eyes flicked back to Adam’s, meeting his gaze steadily. This time, he did not bother to look away. Bashear had the kind of eyes a man could get lost in—not just for their shape or their depth, but for the intelligence behind them. Sharp, discerning. Dangerous in their own way. Pasha felt the impulse to test them, to see how deeply they saw.
He let his smile turn sly, almost teasing, but not cruel. “And you... you speak as someone who has fought against the wind and prevailed, yes?” He gestured subtly, almost imperceptibly, toward the ID clipped to Adam’s chest. A clearance that high came with battles of its own. Pasha could imagine them, each one sharper than the last. “It makes you all the more impressive.”
He let the words linger just long enough to leave their mark, then casually moved to wipe the counter with a rag, as if the compliment had been a passing remark.
“Still,” he added after a beat, his voice low but edged with dark humor, “the job is not without its perks. When no one pays attention to the man with the broom... well, he hears many secrets. Sees many things.” He gave a small, knowing shrug. “Some men build their careers on secrets, yes? While others, like Ross, use them like bricks to build their walls.”
Pasha’s gaze slid back to Adam, holding it just a little longer this time, the faintest glimmer of curiosity sparking in his dark eyes. “But you... I do not think you build walls, Mister Bashear. I think you could. But you don’t.” He let the words hang in the air, a quiet challenge. Was he right? Would Bashear correct him?
He wiped his hands on the rag, almost offhandedly, and with a faint, crooked smile, added, “I admire that.”
And he did. Far more than he expected.
Blue Marvel:: There was more to the Custodial Engineer than met the eye, a possible philosophy student who had chosen not to go down the path to a career in law or politics. Perhaps he still had such aspirations. There was a difference between speaking of reality as he lived it now versus any intended in the future. The fact that he moved with a calculated grace spoke of hidden volumes. Adam knew that he tended to take in a great deal of information that others might miss, the subtle gestures, the glances that reinforced the connection between them. Even the fact that he had chosen to engage at all. People not born into the ruling class knew how to control the level of their visibility, and Porter had chosen to give more than the customary grunt or curt acknowledgement.
Adam welcomed the engagement, outside of Banner, and to some extent Ross, but not her father, most people did not acknowledge that they saw him at all. That was changing, but it too time to win over hearts and minds. Porter came from a better stock than most here, although for just a moment, he had caught the expression like a cat about to push something off the table.
Despite Basherar, internal monologue, no time had passed between the moment of Porter's compliment and his acknowledgement. He thought far faster than any computer would be likely to achieve for a century. It was a useful talent, as it allowed him to reduce the number of times he put his foot in his mouth.
"We will truly know we have reached the pinnacle of our success when men like Ross recognize what you have, and respect it being a grudging respect. In the meantime, I hope to enjoy coffee with you... one engineer to another."
rID: 13r4-p197 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha’s hand stilled faintly against the counter, the rag hanging loosely in his fingers as Adam’s words settled over him. One engineer to another. The corner of his mouth lifted, a slow, crooked smile that betrayed the brief flicker of surprise he felt. A rare thing, to be met halfway. Rarer still, to be seen through.
He let the words linger in the air a beat too long, savoring them, before he glanced down at the rag in his hands with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle. “Ah... you are very gracious, Mister Bashear,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. “To call me your equal so easily. You may make me vain if you continue.” His eyes, however, betrayed the flicker of warmth behind the playful deflection.
He moved slowly, deliberately, setting the rag aside and reaching for the coffee pot. He turned slightly, angling his body just enough that Adam could see the ease of his movements—the same calculating grace that Bashear had already noted. It was not lost on him. He let it be seen, perhaps even admired.
As he poured the coffee into a fresh cup, he allowed himself the luxury of a glance—slow and deliberate—letting his eyes trace the lines of Bashear’s frame as though committing them to memory. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, the kind of presence that could hold a room without needing to raise his voice. Strength tempered with stillness. With control. The kind of man Pasha could easily imagine pulling the sky itself down with his hands.
He set the cup before Adam with a faint, sly smile. His fingertips lingered a fraction too long against the rim, just enough to suggest a touch without making one. “Then... I will hope you do not drink too quickly,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. His eyes met Adam’s, dark and steady, laced with something just shy of daring. “It would be a shame to waste such rare company.”
He let the words hang for only a moment before retreating with a small, almost lazy step back, making himself unobtrusive once more. But this time, it was a choice. A deliberate step into the background, the man with the broom again—for now.
And with a faint, almost careless shrug, he added with a sly, knowing glimmer in his eyes, “Besides... I think I could enjoy watching you move mountains, Mister Bashear. One engineer to another.”
Blue Marvel:: "Gracious," Adam repeated, as if invoking a talisman. He accepted the proffered refill of coffee. He was taking a break for two reasons, and now three. The first was for the simple desire to taste a nice cup of a caffeinated beverage, the second was for Banner's sake. Bruce would be forced to take a rest until he returned. The last reason had only developed recently, as he was intrigued by the man before him. He was eloquent in both word and movement, a rare combination to find in anyone, but somehow more intriguing because how each person used such traits was always different. People assumed Poetry in Motion was an obvious thing, but could they define it?
"At the moment, it is true, I do not know you, but first impressions are important for a reason. In a room where I already knew the General and Miss Ross, you stand out without meaning to, or if you intended to, it is telling that only I noticed. That implies that you know yourself well enough to only attract the attention of the person you wish. For my part..." he paused long enough to take a deliberate sip of coffee. It wasn't to make a dramatic interruption in his speech, he just wanted to make sure he didn't put his foot in his mouth. "... I know a man worthy of my attention when I see him. Equality is not based on degrees or positions. To quote an author who really should publish the novel it comes from, but I had the good fortune to read “Maurice am I?” and Alec says, “You called me Alec. . . . I’m as good as you. I will not be treated as your servant.”
Adam took a long sip of coffee, promising that he would stop acting like he was on the lecture circuit. "Simply put, if I cannot see you as a man worthy of my company, we can not enjoy a coffee, or anything else."
NOTES:: The Quote was from E.M Foster's "Maurice." The novel was not published until the 70's, but I wanted to use the quote as I think it perfectly encapsulates Adam's thinking. Luckily, the Novel was written in out completely in 1932, and it is said that Foster showed it to his close friends, so I took liberties.
If you haven't read or seen the movie, I highly recommend it.
rID: 13r5-p200 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha’s fingers grazed the edge of the counter, idly smoothing over a faint groove in the worn surface as Adam’s words resonated through him. The weight of them lingered—a deliberate measure of honesty wrapped in quiet strength. He felt it hum faintly beneath his skin, a subtle, restless current stirring at the edge of his awareness. Like standing too close to a storm. No—closer. A gravitational pull, unseen but felt, dragging at something deeper than the flesh. Something older.
He could not name it. Not yet.
Instead, he allowed himself the small indulgence of watching Adam as he spoke, the slight tilt of his head almost lazy, almost disinterested—though it was anything but. His eyes traced the faint lines at the corners of Adam’s mouth when he smiled, the slow grace with which he sipped his coffee, the way the light caught on the edge of his jawline and cast a faint shadow down the length of his throat. Strength tempered with stillness. With patience. And beneath it, something far greater, something vast and immutable, bound into the frame of a man.
Pasha exhaled slowly through his nose, schooling the slight hitch in his breath into a carefully measured chuckle. He glanced down, feigning distraction with the coffee pot he wasn’t holding, fingers instead ghosting over the handle without claiming it. His eyes flicked back up just once—quick, fleeting—but enough. Enough to let his gaze linger for half a heartbeat too long on the broadness of Adam’s shoulders, the quiet power in the set of his frame, the near-imperceptible way space itself seemed to bend faintly around him.
A man worthy of his company, indeed.
The corner of Pasha’s mouth curved faintly, the expression almost lazy, almost disarming—but there was a glimmer of something sharper beneath it, something he could not yet name. “Ah...” he murmured, letting the sound drag just slightly, savoring the richness of his own voice, low and quiet. “You are... very generous, Mister Bashear.” His eyes lowered briefly, an almost demure tilt of his lashes, though the faint glimmer of heat in them betrayed the subtle gesture. “But then... you would know, I think, that being seen for what we are is... a rare and dangerous thing.”
He let the words linger, measured but softly spoken. Not a challenge. Not quite. But close.
Reaching past the coffee pot, he drew out a clean cup, his movements slow and deliberate. He let the gesture linger, the slight flex of his wrist, the faint tension in his fingers as he held the porcelain—an almost unconscious display of elegance, of subtle precision, meant for no one in particular. But he did not rush. His fingertips traced the lip of the cup as he set it down before Adam, this time without the barrier of distance. No lingering, no half-touch. This time, his fingers barely—deliberately—brushed against Adam’s knuckles as he released the cup.
A faint brush of skin against skin.
He did not apologize for it.
Instead, he let his eyes meet Adam’s, steady and still, the faintest edge of daring flickering in the dark. The weight of that unnamed thing lingered just beneath the surface, tugging faintly at the edge of his senses. It called to him, low and insistent—a presence that was vast and quiet and terrifyingly beautiful. He did not know its name. But he knew the way it felt, that slow, inexorable gravity drawing him in.
He smiled faintly—small, self-deprecating. “I imagine... it would be a foolish man indeed who did not wish to share your company, Mister Bashear.” His voice dipped lower, almost confessional, almost wistful. “But perhaps a bolder one who hopes for it twice.”
And then—because he knew the times they lived in, because he knew the world’s gaze could be cruel—he let his hand fall back easily, returning to the counter with a casual grace. The ghost of the touch remained, though. He could still feel it, faint and warm against his skin. And somehow, he knew Adam could feel it too.
NOTES:: Pasha feels an unnameable pull toward Adam, sensing the vast, quiet power beneath his stillness—a presence that stirs something deep and unspoken. With deliberate grace, he brushes Adam’s knuckles as he serves the coffee, a fleeting but intentional touch. His gaze lingers, steady and daring, before he softly acknowledges the rare and dangerous intimacy of being truly seen. With a subtle smile, he remarks that only a bold man would hope to share Adam’s company twice, leaving the quiet weight of his words hanging between them.
Blue Marvel:: Sometimes, a moment felt like it lasted forever, but not in a good way. He recalled standing before a room full of his fellow classmates, Clarinet in hand, and producing sounds that were an affront to the nerves as well as the ear. He remembered the embarrassment that had come with the moment, as it became increasingly clear that he was never going to play before the New York Philharmonic. He remembered it lasting forever, but when the music teacher excused him. Delores Parks took her turn, the speed at which she cut the girl off told him there was no way she had allowed him to suffer for so long, when Delores was significantly better than he was. Still, she hadn't even been given thirty seconds when Thomas Thorn was also cut off after about twenty seconds.
This was not such a moment. Adam feared that no matter how long this interaction lasted, it would be too short. All day long, he had to deal with people who second-guessed everything he did. When working with Ross and Banner, this was fine. In the scientific community, only a fool would not double-check calculations. Outside of the lab, however, being questioned about everything, even about the weather.
He smiled faintly, small, self-deprecating. “I imagine... it would be a foolish man indeed who did not wish to share your company, Mister Bashear.” His voice dipped lower, almost confessional, almost wistful. “But perhaps a bolder one who hopes for it twice.”
Had he heard right? "Please call me, Adam," he said to fill the void of the moment. It could be an innocuous statement, but men often said things that should only be interpreted as what they mean, but some men recognized it as an invitation to engage in behavior that society as a whole disapproved of. Adam considered himself skilled at the intricacies of language, but sometimes he doubted what he heard, a defence mechanism.
"As I said, I would consider the honor or another encounter to be mine," he said, wondering if he sounded too stiff in his response.
rID: 13r6-p207 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Please call me, Adam. The words lingered, deceptively simple, yet heavy with unspoken meaning. The invitation was clear enough to be understood, yet careful enough to remain safe—plausibly innocuous if overheard. Pasha let it settle between them, a flicker of something quietly dangerous sparking in his chest.
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, eyes lowering briefly in a subtle display of deference, though the glance he offered as he lifted them again was anything but. “Then, Adam it is,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. The name slipped from his tongue with deliberate familiarity, as though they were already long acquainted.
He moved slowly, deliberately, under the guise of pouring a fresh cup. The steam curled between them, but Pasha’s eyes remained steady, watching Adam with the same calculating grace he had used when measuring threats. But there was no caution in his gaze now—only consideration. Curiosity. Weight.
The coffee was merely an excuse when he reached across the counter, his fingertips brushing fleetingly over Adam’s knuckles. The touch was light, nearly incidental, yet unmistakably deliberate. A boldness too subtle to be named aloud, but unmistakable between men who knew how to be careful.
Pasha’s breath slowed slightly, aware of the shift in the air—the impossible weight of presence he could not quite define. Something deep stirred beneath Adam’s stillness, ancient and vast. A gravity that pulled at him, not with force, but inevitability. He could not name it, but he felt it—the distant echo of a thing that answered his own.
And he liked it.
Drawing back, he cradled the coffee pot in his hand, letting the moment linger. His smile softened faintly, playful but edged with something more dangerous—something unspoken. “Then I shall consider it a favor, Adam,” he replied smoothly, his voice velvet-soft, but carrying just enough weight to be felt. “If you find the time… to grant me the honor of a second... encounter.”
His eyes held Adam’s just a beat too long before he turned away with a measured, unhurried grace—the lingering touch still ghosting against his fingers.
Blue Marvel:: Adam was grateful that coffee had no effect on him, or three cups would be a problem, but if Porter continued to pour, he would continue to drink, but he knew he could not prolong the coffee break forever, and while their might be snide comments about Adam slacking off, he did not want to endanger Porter's job, just to spend a few more moments in his company. The realization came with the fact that he was aware that there was some sort of chemistry between them, or perhaps he should say energy, but that only made sense if he were only going to think about life in terms of his powers or his profession. What he meant was a human connection.
He also thought it might become obvious that he was spending far too much time studying the man's every motion. He suspected that if Porter knew, he might not object, but Adam wasn't so naive as to think his glances hadn't been noticed at all. "Perhaps, we should meet after work where no one is watching how much time we are off the clock, or more importantly, what we are doing or saying, with their unwelcome scrutiny."
rID: 13r7-p209 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha’s fingers slowed ever so slightly around the handle of the coffee pot, a deliberate pause to let Adam’s words settle in the quiet space between them. The offer lingered in the air, heady with possibility—both more and less than what was spoken aloud. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining it: away from prying eyes, no uniforms or pretenses, no need for careful glances. Just the two of them, somewhere beyond the long shadow of scrutiny.
The corner of his mouth curved faintly, rueful but warm, as he slowly set the pot aside. He met Adam’s gaze with a look that carried just enough regret to be convincing. “I would... very much like that, Adam,” he murmured, savoring the familiarity of the name on his tongue. It slipped from his lips as if he had said it countless times before, practiced and easy, though the glimmer in his eyes revealed the thrill of it still. “But, unfortunately, I am working a double today. A few staffing issues.” He let the faintest note of weariness enter his voice—a small, perfectly measured sigh of disappointment. “Though I do have an hour for dinner at seven... if you are inclined to keep me company.”
The invitation was spoken casually, as if it were nothing more than a gesture of shared convenience, but the slow sweep of his eyes as they lingered on Adam’s betrayed something far less casual.
He turned slightly, fussing with a cloth left near the counter, letting his body angle away from Adam in what seemed an absent motion, though it was anything but. Out of sight, his fingers curled subtly into the fabric—a fleeting clench to ground himself against the fleeting pull of doubt. He could feel the weight of his decision tightening in his chest, a sharp ache beneath the steady beat of his heart. Tonight. Banner’s Gammatron trial would push nearly everyone out of the building, leaving the lab all but empty. It was the perfect window to act. To walk the corridors unseen, slip into the research level, and retrieve what Mother Russia needed. What she deserved.
He released the cloth, smoothing his palm over it with a soft, absent gesture. When he turned back, his expression was once again composed—a faint, teasing glimmer beneath his lashes, just enough to offer Adam a small, wry smile. “You may, of course, be risking your own reputation. Dining with the help,” he added with a soft chuckle, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. “But... if you are so inclined, I am willing to be a little reckless.”
And he was. In more ways than Adam could possibly know.
NOTES:: Both Pasha and Stern are russian assets workinng for different russian agencies and unaware of the other - tonight the hulk and the leader will be created
Blue Marvel:: "I never said dining, but if that is what you would wish," Adam said, deliberately trailing off. Since he was fairly positive that the word play between them was deliberate. He wasn't as practiced as Porter was in his movements, but he did choose his words with care. He allowed himself a small smile. There was something about the man's name that felt slightly off, maybe because of the nominative determinism, which made it feel like it was created rather than a given name. Perhaps that was why, in his mind, he called him Porter. It wasn't, however, why he found the man intriguing. It might very well be his name.
"I suppose in terms of importance, you must be more crucial than I am, while I have been attached to this project, I am not allowed to work overtime, something about the coveted difference between hourly and salaried employment." There were dozens of minor insults that even now he had to endure, technically being hourly suggested that he should be capable a making more money, instead it was used to limit his access to a project. He would have liked to give Banner more of his expertise, but while he imagined that there would come a day when his intellect would truly be appreciated, he decided pushing would not help at the moment.
It was why he could indulge other interests such as why he felt coffee with the janitor was a better use of his time. Banner wasn't the type to scoff at another's intelligence, but he was subject to General Ross, and his position was tenuous until he produced results. Taking guidance from Bashear perversely undermined them both. Still, while Banner was a nice guy, he was hardly as interesting as Porter.
rID: 13r8-p212 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha chuckled, a low, knowing sound as he leaned back slightly, regarding Adam with a wry expression. "No, I said dining," he corrected smoothly, his tone light but deliberate. "And I am the help, so if you join me, you’re dining with the help—hence the paper bag." He tapped his fingers against the side of his coffee cup, eyes flickering with amusement.
"It should be noted," he added with mock gravity, "that my side of the table will be furnished in early-to-mid-century brown paper bag. A true testament to working-class elegance. Have spork, will travel." Pasha said with a light-hearted laugh.
That last part was more than a joke. Pasha had killed three men with a spork, though not all at once. He was a world-class assassin, a specter in the shadows, yet there were times like these when he felt like something else entirely—something unformed, eternal, untouched by time or consequence. The eternal child.
And yet, something about Adam made him feel particularly mortal.
He studied the man before him—big and powerful, all clean-cut lines and keen intelligence, a presence that was impossible to ignore. Pasha had worked with men who considered themselves strong, who relied on brute force or sheer ruthlessness, but Adam was something else entirely. He radiated strength in a way that felt effortless, unshakable, as if the very air around him bent to his will. And then there was his voice—deep, commanding, the kind of voice that could reshape the world if it chose to.
Pasha forced himself to look away, taking a slow sip of his coffee to mask the brief lapse in his composure. He needed to check the base records, to see who this Adam Bashear really was. Not because he didn’t trust him—trust was irrelevant—but because something about him felt out of place. Too competent. Too interesting. Too dreamy.
"Of course," he mused, letting his gaze return to Adam with a teasing lilt, "if you’d rather maintain your salaried dignity, I can always eat alone." A challenge, wrapped in jest, but the invitation stood; It should be noted that if Adam told Pasha to suck his dick, he would as Pasha found Adam to be that dreamy.
NOTES:: Both Pasha and Stern are russian assets workinng for different russian agencies and unaware of the other - tonight the hulk and the leader will be created
Blue Marvel:: "Anyone who chooses 'dignity' as determined by someone else's definition is making a terrible mistake," Adam said with an unintentionally sad smile. He'd already made that mistake once in his life and would have to live with it for the rest of his life. He had a vast array of powers, but they stopped short of being able to change the actions of time/space in reverse. He had a chance here that he was not going to squander. He finished the last of his coffee as he organized his thoughts before he spoke again.
"I may eat out of a metal lunchbox, but I still make it myself. I think I prefer that, so I can put that pail under the table, and we can just dine together," he grinned. If he sounded foolish, so be it. Why throw the human connection under the bus just because others might not approve? The older he got, the more he realized that the opinions of the nebulous 'they' were all meaningless if they left a man feeling alone and disconnected.
Adam wanted to know more about this man, and the only way to do that would be to get to know him. A work application was a collection of facts, but what made Porter who he was had not been typed on a form; they were inside the man himself. He rinced out his cup.
"When next we speak, I hope it is in a setting where our positions only matter if we are comfortable with them." Wow, that had come out wrong... or maybe right.
rID: 13r9-p220 - POSTED: dwanpol; Thu, Feb 14, 1963
midKnight:: Pasha didn’t say anything at first. He just watched Adam over the rim of his cup, a glint in his eye that was half mischief, half something warmer—rarer. Whatever he had expected from the man, it wasn’t this. And yet, it suited Adam perfectly. The quiet depth, the unexpected openness. That metal lunchbox line? That grin? That sad smile?
Dangerous.
The kind of dangerous that didn’t make Pasha reach for a weapon—but made him pause, hesitate, consider. And feel.
He set the cup down gently and took a few slow steps around the small breakroom table, deliberately moving into Adam’s space. Each step casual but calculated, until he was positioned just between Adam and the door. His boot nudged the door gently with the side of his foot—just enough to ease it mostly shut, just enough to veil the view.
He tilted his head, voice low, colored with that teasing lilt Adam had already heard and surely recognized by now. “For what it’s worth… I don’t really care about anyone’s definition of dignity either.”
He leaned in. Not too close, not presumptive—but close enough. His hand went to briefly touched Adam’s arm, his fingers went wanting to brush the sleeve like a whisper, and then, if Adam permitted, he pressed his lips ever so lightly to the side of Adam's cheek. The kind that lingered just a moment longer than polite.
“I hope I’m not misreading anything,” Pasha murmured against his skin, lips close but not quite touching. “But I figured I’d better make sure before we both overthink it to death.”
He straightened just a bit, though not enough to give up the proximity, not yet.
“As for ‘comfortable positions’…” His lips curved in a slow, wicked smile, eyes dancing. “Mine might involve being in your lap. Or under you. Maybe during a very intense, very dignified game of Twister.”
He gave a wink. “That’s what you meant, right?”
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