MGS: Irene Goodnight
Aug. 4th, 2010 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
what_we_dreamIt should have been raining. If nature had had any decency, the sky would have split open and let rain torrent down in cords to drown the world; the wind would have torn through the bay, screaming and howling in a voice fit to break ears, until the harbour water sliced like saw blades into the inky horizon.
Instead it was calm and clear, a warm spring night lit by the city’s sparkling lights and the weaker stars above them.
Otacon sat by the edge of the Lower Harbour, staring out at the smooth sable surface. The tails of his lab coat were twisted under him on his awkward seat of concrete rubble. The darkness had painted the white grey, making it impossible to pick out the dark smudges over his chest, his stomach. They should have been over his heart. But then, he had never found any decency in fate. The only justice to be found, it seemed, was what you carved out for yourself.
Out in the harbour there was no sign of the Big Shell, of the hulking struts and the metal lattice-work walkways. They had already sunk below the water, maybe tangled up with the wrecked tanker; cause and effect wrapped neatly together in a loving embrace. And folded in between, dozens of lives. Dozens and one, numbers which had no equality in mathematics but found it in his mind. Found more, found the scales tipped in the other direction [you’ll have to look after her, I know I can trust you with that] and what did that say about all the degrees he had once had hanging on his wall?
He had cried out all his tears some time ago, exhausted his supply of salt and water and sheer energy so that he felt dry and arid as a wasteland. But the ache in his throat told him he would find them again after a long drink. He was familiar enough with grief to know that. Eminently familiar with the leaden weight in his gut [‘Mom’ sounds ridiculously old; just call me Julie], with the slackness in his limbs and the futile circling of his thoughts. Familiar enough to know it would take an outside force to move him away from here, to prompt him into motion.
The shore was littered with rocks, some natural, but most the rubble from some long-since blasted building, pieces of concrete in various sizes. He picked up a jagged stone in unsteady fingers and turned it over, explored its edges and lines [you can take her down to the beach and teach her to skip stones] and spun suddenly to throw it into the water so hard his shoulder twinged.
Otacon? I’ve lost Ocelot. I’m going to check in on the kid. See what you can dig up on the disc. Snake’s voice, echoing in his head.
Right.
The stone cut into the water like a plough blade and sank.
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It took time to make his way to the safe-house, to his back-up computer – the first lying drowned in the harbour. He made the trip in a series of silent segments; cab, bus, cab, subway. Walked through the city which never slept [you spend too much time sleeping; you need to lead a fuller life] but which at 4:30 a.m. was dozing lightly.
He passed the paperboy in the stairwell – it was actually a papergirl, with her allotment swelling the sides of a thread-bare messenger bag swung unevenly across her chest. She skirted around him in a wide arc, bright squirrel-eyes staring determinedly ahead. He forgot about her [she’s sleeping/playing/swimming, forget her] the minute she was out of his sight. His mind was already on the computer waiting for him, on the programs to be written and code to be downloaded, and the disc lying heavy as a gun in his pocket.
The computer was several seconds slower starting up than his primary, running on a slightly older processor and with reduced memory. It was still more than powerful enough for the task at hand, but he noticed the discrepancy all the same. But time [I’ll always have time for you, Hal] was something he had on his hands.
Otacon worked at decrypting the top and tail of the code, at teasing out the genuine data from the twisted mess of nonsense and misdirection until his eyes blurred and even then, until the possibility of making mistakes became genuine and probable. No longer trustworthy, he minimized his work, and instead trolled through the internet until he couldn’t make sense of what he was reading, until he could no longer read it.
Steps heavy and faltering [you’re so graceful], hair falling in his sallow face [you’re so handsome], he lurched across the room and collapsed into a creaking mattress [you’re so charming, Hal] flat on his face. Eyes burning, he rolled onto his back and opened them [I just can’t resist you] to stare at the ceiling. With the room’s one window blocked up by a piece of cardboard, the only light came from the computer’s power lights, pouring an eerie underwater-like effect over the wall.
His mind was full of bodies drifting in seaweed, of that horrible darkness wrapped around them. Of her – E.E., E.E., E.E. – swaying alone in the gentle currents like a bird, like a kite. Like a corpse.
Oh, God.
He found that he still had some reserves of tears left, after all. Turned, gasping so hard as almost to be gagging [I know how you feel – your body never lies, you know] and wrapped his arms tight around himself. Closed his eyes against the burning tears. Rocked against the stiff mattress and keened wordlessly in a grief that ran deeper than thought until exhaustion smothered him into sleep.
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It was two days before he felt confident enough that the disc had given up all its secrets to call Snake with the information, fellow Philanthropist holed up on the other side of the city. It wasn’t much, but it was at least enough to prompt a meeting. The media had had a field day with the Big Shell, but Philanthropy had learned its lesson after the Tanker and Snake had appeared in no photos. And, as of yet, Ocelot had not sent in any claims of the soldier’s presence in what was being called the second Harbour Terrorist Attack. Their presence there remained unreleased, unknown. Snake’s secret safe.
“You look terrible,” was the first thing Snake said to him, opening the door warily. Otacon shrugged.
“Forgot to stock the safe-house – no shampoo, no razor.” He could have bought them, of course. But he didn’t have the momentum and besides [oh, don’t; you know you want to], lining the apartment with blades had seemed a bad idea.
“You can borrow some,” said Snake, letting him in.
“Thanks.” He slipped in through the door, placed his duffel on the floor next to it with care. “I – how have you been?” For reasons of safety they had never had too much contact, and that had remained truer than ever over the past few days.
It was apparent Snake had had a hard time of it, and was doing less to hide it than he would have two years, four years, ago. That he was beginning to find so much activity a strain. The lines of his face, of his back, his shoulders proclaimed so much even without the bandages wrapped around his wrist and temples. Four years ago, would he have been wounded by Vamp, been knocked out by an explosion he was expecting?
“Fine.” A shrug, a wince, suggesting something wrong under the loose t-shirt. “Cut things a bit close with Ocelot,” he admitted gruffly.
“Want me to take a look at it?” As if he were much good [why don’t you take a look] with first aid.
Snake paused, entire posture saying no, and then to Otacon’s astonishment said, “Alright.” Pulled the shirt off right then and there and turned to lead the way over to a pair of kitchen chairs.
A thick band of white linen divided the soldier’s broad back, separating his shoulder blades from the concave curve of his spine. Otacon watched the play of muscles in his back as he walked over to the chair with a slight hunch, noticed the tension in those on the right side. He followed, glancing around the apartment. Took in the one set of dishes on the tiny kitchen counter-space, the uneven table, the open door to the tiny bedroom showing the cot next to – but not under – the window, the open bag beside it with its contents in shadows. The USP on the tabletop, the SOCOM by the bed, the knife hanging in a leather sheath from a coat hook by the door.
Snake sat down straddling the chair, found the knot in the linen and quickly pulled it out, long steams of white slipping down with a rustle. Under them was a square of gauze taped unevenly and slightly crooked to the skin beneath. Dreading what he would find under it [here, just slip it off] he peeled it off carefully, Snake’s shoulders tensing slightly the man’s only hint at discomfort. Under the gauze was a long, weeping cut, just beginning to scab over. Wet, red flesh, spongy and bright, flashed here and there under darker dried blood and translucent clots.
“Well?”
“Looks painful.”
The soldier grunted.
“But it’s scabbing over, no sign of infection.” The skin directly bordering the gash was pink, but there was no disturbingly red tinge to the skin, no abnormal inflammation. He knew enough, at least, to know that. He turned over the gauze in his hand, found only a weak bloodstain. Snake had been taking care of himself, at least. But then, the soldier was plenty used to that. “Where’s your first aid stuff?”
“In the bathroom.” Snake nodded in the right direction, although there was no need; there were only two offshoots from the main room and both doors were open. It was as clean – as empty – as the rest of the apartment. A bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo, a razor. A white metal box with a red cross. Otacon fetched it back to the main room, Snake watching him over his shoulder. “Any problems?”
“No, I tracked it down okay,” said Hal, glancing down [take this – on second thought, let me put it on] at the box in his hand. The soldier snorted, turned.
“That’s not what I meant. You look… never mind.”
Otacon, who didn’t look at his reflection in the mirror precisely because he didn’t want to know, licked his lips. “It’ll pass.”
Snake made no reply, and the engineer set the kit down on his knees and rummaged for the gauze and tape.
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“So you’re saying we’re no further ahead than we were before? In fact, since we’ve given up the fact that I’m not dead to these bastards, whoever they are, we’re actually further behind.”
“Ye-es, although I’m not sure you can call an AI system a bastard…”
“You believe that?”
“I think it’s certainly possible. Of course, there could be something else going on, but there is some pretty strong proof.”
Otacon had his laptop out, was scrolling through the information he’d dug out and put together in a clear and concise format for the soldier. Philanthropy had started out with him acting as Snake’s briefer, and whatever else he may have become, the format had stuck. Snake was sitting next to him, still straddling his chair, arms crossed on the top of the backrest and chin resting on them. His bare back described a shallow arc in the low afternoon sun, jeans breaking the straight line of skin from his torso to the bare feet resting flat on the floor.
Snake certainly seemed to be loosening up. Although possibly [here, have a sip of this] he was just self-medicating.
“What do we need to do now?” Snake turned to look at him without raising his chin, green eyes bright and glinting.
“Well, I suppose we’ll continue keeping an eye on the international situation, and meanwhile I’ll do everything I can to-”
“That’s not what I meant,” cut in Snake. Otacon tumbled to a halt. “I don’t mean Philanthropy. I mean, after what happened out there, what do we need to do? If it’s time, or a change in direction or location, we can do that.”
Otacon paused [right here and now, Hal, I want you] with his eyes halfway between the computer and his partner. “I don’t need anything,” he said finally, each word slipping from his tongue slow as dew from a blade of grass.
“I won’t pretend to understand that kind of loss, but I don’t have to to know you look like crap.”
“So do you.” He said it harshly, an instinct to hit back rising from the mists of time, and then flushed. “I mean,” he began again, biting back an apology but not the tone, “neither of us is at his best, now. But by the time you’re back in shape, I’ll be fine.”
Snake wouldn’t have been stopped by something like this four years ago, Otacon was sure. Had no idea how long it would take him to return to par now.
“Alright,” returned Snake contemplatively, with no sense of giving a promise.
Otacon nodded and set his computer to sleep, shut the lid and made to stand.
“You can stay here, if you want,” suggested Snake blankly, eyes sweeping across the apartment. “Save on the bill, and safer if these bastard computers come after us.”
Otacon smiled humourlessly. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’d rather not have to flip for the cot.” He would have sprung at the chance [I know you’ve been lonely] for an increased friendship with the soldier before. But before the soldier never would have offered, and it was the reason he did that was the reason Otacon wouldn’t stay. He had no desire to be part of some half-baked suicide-watch. It was unnecessary in any case; death was immeasurable and as such could never act as a counterweight to anything. Could never even out crimes.
Snake shrugged, with just a touch of stiffness. “Suit yourself. But keep in touch, you know the schedule.”
“Yeah. I will.”
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Optimism, he decided on his fifth beer, unlike death, was measurable, and he had used all of his up. Frittered it away like specks of gold, watched it wash away behind him in his wake. Life, like all rivers, only flowed one-way. And without it, he was slowly sinking, sinking, sinking until [oh my god, Emma – Max] he jerked up with a start as his can toppled with a hollow clatter. The action shook the table and toppled the rest of the empty cans, set them rolling back and forth on the stained table. Cursing thoughtlessly, he pushed away from the table and stood, wandered unevenly through the hall to the single bed waiting for him bathed in aurora-green light. Where Snake’s apartment had been one large open room, his was a maze of narrow corridors with tiny rooms stashed away here and there between them.
The air in the bedroom wasn’t stuffy [he’s not breathing] but he stumbled over to the window, pulled the cardboard down out of the frame and slammed the sash all the way open. The cold air on his face shocked away some of the heavier drunkenness, lent him a kind of temporary, false, sobriety. Sober enough to know that even if he couldn’t see it from here, couldn’t see anything but the stained bricks and rusted fire escape of the adjacent apartment, the harbour was still there and nothing had changed. Drunk enough to know she was still gone, and it was his crimes that had dragged her down, hung filthy and indelible around her neck [pull her out, pull her out, pull her out] until they finally drowned her.
He fell back onto the bed, not bothering to pull the blankets over himself, and tried to remember. It was exactly what he deserved. Well. Not exactly.
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Otacon’s throat was sore when he woke up, his head hot and aching. The headache was from the beer, the rest from the still-open window, a cool mist drifting in to bead on the window. Outside the sky was already darkening to charcoal grey with the approaching evening, his internal clock having run down. Groaning thickly he rolled off the bed and stumbled over to slam it down, wood sliding reluctantly against wood and closing unevenly. He slumped to the floor with his back against the wall [you rest, dear – I’ll see you later] and rested his head in his hands. They were cool compared to his fevered skin, and he passed them over his temples for what little relief they offered.
Outside it was raining, raindrops rattling against the single pane of glass in a quiet tattoo. They had soaked the window frame, gathered at the edge to drop down onto the bare floor below, and now onto his head. Slowly, unevenly, unpredictably. He glanced up irritably and swept a hand across the wood, flicked the water away.
A ringing in his head interrupted him, set his temples aching again.
Otacon? Snake, of course. Sounding gruffer than usual. Maybe smoking, the burning heat drying out his throat, nicotine brightening the already vivid colours of his world.
Yes?
You sound terrible. You okay?
Yeah, sure, just a frog in my throat. Otacon coughed unconvincingly. What’s up? He tried to sound interested, aware, attentive. Anything but empty. Anything but soul-sick.
It’s… my back, said Snake, grudgingly, in an unusual tone. Either embarrassment or deceit, or both, the soldier having used neither frequently enough for Otacon to be able to recognise them. Think there might be a minor infection setting in.
Otacon sighed, dropping his head back into his hands. Well, it wasn’t so inconceivable the soldier would want company; he’d spent so much time alone. Company now, especially [you’re so sweet, Hal, not to mind the little difference] that he wasn’t young anymore and would only keep hurtling down that slope.
Otacon sat bolt upright, so fast that he slammed the back of his skull into the window frame, and cursed aloud.
What was that?
Sorry – nothing – just, nevermind. I’ll be over in a while.
Maybe there was justice in fate, after all. And it carried a damn sharp blade.
He’d never thought of love as a weapon, but it fit. Exactly.
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Snake opened the door on the third knock, and to his credit looked embarrassed with himself. In his case, this was mainly demonstrated in a slight curve of his heavy eyebrows and an upwards crook of his lips.
“Are you okay?” asked Otacon immediately, in part because gangrene kills and it was just possible that the soldier actually was in trouble – in which case he would probably be dealing with something worse than a minor infection – but mainly because he felt it was expected of him.
Snake’s smile widened just a hair, and the engineer struck off option one. When the soldier turned to pad across the room to the chair there was still a slight unnatural tenseness in his form, but nothing suggesting a need for concern.
“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly to the wall. “Shouldn’t’ve called you out, but you know how it is. Damn hard to get at your own back. Mirror’s got an inch thick patina on it, anyway.”
“We really should raise our requirements in standard of living – you could catch anything in here,” said Otacon, who had had no trouble seeing his own reflection on his last visit. “Wouldn’t want to see you get taken out by tetanus, or septicaemia, or asbestos poisoning,” he added as he crossed the room, eyes on Snake’s back as the soldier stripped off his loose t-shirt [it’s hot in here, just let me slip this off] to reveal the smooth muscles beneath.
“I’ll try to keep my face out of the insulation,” replied Snake blandly. Leaned forward to rest his arms on the back of the chair, back rippling sinuously. The bandage, Otacon noticed, had been changed since his own attempt at it. It was at least as neat as his own effort.
Otacon knelt down on the hard floor and undid the tie nonetheless, carefully unwinding the linen [just like unwrapping a present] to reveal the tanned skin beneath. There was another patch of gauze taped to the skin, and the engineer peeled it off carefully. Found a nearly-healed wound with no sign of infection. He wasn’t surprised.
“Yes, I can see why you’d be worried about this,” he said slowly, bending to put the gauze carefully face-up on the floor, because at a time like this precision made things easier.
Snake cleared his throat, shoulder blades slipping in and out sleekly. “Otacon –”
“How long?” asked the engineer, directed his question at the supple curve of Snake’s spine.
There was a pause filled only with two beating hearts, and then, “A year, give or take. Maybe more. Maybe since the Tanker. You knew?” Snake didn’t turn, didn’t move from his easy position. Apparently completely unbothered by making a confession to the wall.
“Not until this afternoon.” He didn’t have to comment on the excuse; Snake knew just as well as him how pathetic it was.
The shoulders shrugged instead, a lithe movement like waves rippling [isn’t Emma swimming with Max?] in a current. Otacon’s gut tensed so tightly he bent over it, unseen by the soldier who continued on.
“I just kind of realised: what am I waiting for? Things to get better? Why bother; they won’t. I’ve waited too damn long already.”
Otacon straightened in time, masked the remnants of pain by taking off his glasses, reached around Snake to lay them down on the table even as the soldier swivelled on the chair to look over his shoulder.
[You want me, Hal – a hand on his cheek]
[You need me, Hal – a hand in his hair]
[You love me, Hal – a hand over his heart]
Seeing his expression, Snake slid a leg over the back of the chair to turn completely.
[I love you, Hal – warm lips against his]
“Otacon –”
Kneeling in front of the soldier, gray eyes even with green, the engineer crooked his own lips into what was by definition a smile. It came nowhere near his eyes.
“Call me Hal,” said Hal Emmerich, dealing out justice with a steady hand. Leant forward and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips.
“Hal,” growled Snake appreciatively, and in one smooth movement took what was offered. He made no protest when his hands were led to caress the engineer’s cheek, hair. His lips, his tongue, his strength were different, but at the bottom it was all very much the same. It was heat and slickness and intimacy Hal didn’t want but oh God he did.
It was stupidly, ridiculously, horribly easy.
[Hal; Hal; Ha-al; Hal; HAL!]
[Hal, I miss you]
And just like that, the kiss was salty with his tears. And just like that he knew there was no curse, he was his own curse. And then everything snapped, like a rubber band stretched too far.
They broke apart simultaneously, Otacon so fast that he was forced to throw a hand out to catch himself. He used it to lever himself up to his feet, backing away and wiping at his eyes and mouth with the heel of his palm. Watching the soldier watching him with a gargoyle’s frozen stare.
The wall came out of nowhere; Otacon collided with it gently and tried to take another two steps backwards before it computed.
“Hal –”
“I-I’m sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper, barely a sob, barely strong enough to reach across the room. It certainly wasn’t enough. But the doorknob was pressed against his side, and then it wasn’t because it was in his hand.
Snake’s apartment was right next to the stairwell, a location with various pros and cons. Currently it was pros all the way. Otacon slammed the door shut behind him and ran, not down but up one flight with his hand on the wall, and huddled hidden around the corner on the landing panting silently to pull air in through the burning clamp in his throat. He had hardly frozen before he heard Snake bang out after him, soldier taking off down the stairs. He stood and crept back down into the apartment, over to the table with his glasses still resting on it, scooped them up in a shaking hand. He’d go back upstairs and wait for a while, then go out the back exit and around to…
Behind him, the door opened and shut again. Because sometimes, fate did dabble in justice.
“You didn’t really think I’d believe you could make it down four flights faster than me?” said Snake, in a quietly reflective tone. It could have been a threat, but it wasn’t. Just a simple explanation. Something the soldier had never bothered with before.
“I guess not,” said Otacon unevenly, without turning. His throat was loosening, but it felt rough and jagged as a cave wall.
“You know I won’t stop you if you want to go. But I would like to know why.” Although the footsteps were silent, the soldier’s voice drifted closer. Otacon broke away from the table in a stiff, sharp movement, and strode over to the window where he leant on the bar dividing the panes.
It was still raining outside, and dark now. Reflected in the rain-soaked glass, his face was a pale orb with a dark halo, nothing more. He leant forward and rested his forehead against the cool glass, sighed and closed his eyes.
“You know,” he said slowly, eyes slipping open a sliver to stare at the base of the window, “I never wanted anyone to hate me. I mean, obviously, who does? But… of all the people there could be to hate me, I’d least of all want it to be you. ‘S why I never told you, about E.E., about my stepmother, about my father. But I’ll settle for it now.” As if emotions could be consolation prizes. Consolation punishments.
“Hal, I’m not going to hate you.”
Otacon sighed, breath fogging on the window, straightened his bent back and stared out at the rain. “I used to tell her stories, you know. She was that little, when I knew her.”
“Your sister?”
“My stepsister. But that’s not where it starts.” For a minute he ran out of momentum, thoughts sliding away from his thoughts as though on ice. He picked up the thread again in his words still lying heavy in the air, took a breath, and began in a tone that tasted of bitter almonds.
“Once upon a time, there was a man who worked too hard and his little boy, who wasn’t actually so little. The boy was a genius, everyone said, in his late teens and already in college with a full-ride. He was also very lonely. And he was the most awkward socially inept geek you can imagine.” Otacon broke off to give a coughing humourless laugh. “One day the father who worked too hard got married again, to a beautiful charming lady. The beautiful charming lady also had a little girl who was cute and sweet and everything a five year-old girl is supposed to be. The boy started taking care of her; took her to the beach, gave her piggy-back-rides, read her bedtime stories. All the things big brothers are supposed to do, and because he was so lonely he was almost heartsick, he loved her more than he had loved anything, other than his father I guess.”
In the window, his reflection was clearing with time and concentration. Scowling, Otacon shoved his glasses up to rest high in his hair, frames pulling his bangs away with them in a knotted bird’s nest. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who was lonely. The charming, beautiful lady discovered after a while that the man she had married only had time for family after his work was finished, and his work was never finished. So she turned her attention to his son, who was pathetically glad to have a friend. Until he realised friendship wasn’t what she wanted.”
Something behind him creaked; he ignored it and continued on, almost spitting now, tone venomous. “Oh, he held out for a while. But she was beautiful – so beautiful – and charming – oh, so charming – and eventually he gave in.” Here he paused, throat constricting, quick breaths keeping the window fogged. And then barrelled on in, harsh and unstoppable as an elevator with the cables cut, racing down towards the inevitable end. “The hardworking man, meanwhile, figured it out. Maybe they were gone together too often, maybe there were too many glances, maybe, God forbid, he heard them – ” a long, painful swallow. “So one day while the boy’s door was locked he took a swim in the pool and didn’t bother to come up for air. And the little girl jumped in after him, eager to play. And upstairs, the boy and the lady were too busy to hear anything.”
Hands shaking on the windowpane, Otacon pushed himself away and turned around, leant back again to half-sit on the window. Crossed his arms to try to stop the shaking. Across the room Snake was watching him with very dark eyes, expression empty as the frozen ice fields surrounding Shadow Moses.
“And that’s how it ended. Dad dead, E.E. traumatised for life, Julie running for England to escape the rumour mill. Hal without a home in America, and sure as hell not going to England. E.E. blamed me for that, I know. And now she’s dead in the grave she barely avoided more than ten years ago.”
“And you blame yourself.” Snake’s voice might almost have been his own, so precisely had the soldier matched the flat tone.
“For her death? No. At least, not when I’m awake. For her life? Yes. If I had stayed away from Julie, said no maybe just one more time, we’d never have been broken apart. She would never have become what she did to prove herself to me. And then maybe she wouldn’t be … wouldn’t be gone.” He kept his line of sight a careful foot away from Snake’s eyes, kept his tone flat and empty; it was the only way to keep control.
There was a long pause filled only by the quiet patter of rain on glass and, farther away, the background sounds of city life; the low thrum of an uneven bass beat, the whoosh of car wheels through puddles, the thump of heavy feet on thin floors.
“It’s an ugly story, Hal, but I’ve lived uglier days,” said Snake at last, shifting heavily. Raising his head slightly so that the shadows faded from his eyes. There was watchfulness there, but compassion as well.
Otacon reached up to pull his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, looked across towards the kitchen. “When my father died, do you know what the first thing I thought was? ‘How am I going to live without him?’ Not, ‘he didn’t deserve this,’ not even ‘he should have had more time.’ I’ve always been selfish like that. Been terrible with grief. In hindsight, I know that’s what should be important, that’s what I should be thinking about. I shouldn’t be grieving for myself, I should be grieving for the lost life. But in practice, in the heat of the moment, when it matters, I don’t, and that’s disgusting.” A harsh breath. “E.E. is dead, and it’s not my fault, and that just makes it too damn easy. Easy to forget her, easy to pity myself. Easy to ignore the fact that I started all this. But there was an easy way to remind myself. Easy for me, cruel to you.”
“She called you Hal.”
“All the time.” All. The. Time.
Snake shifted now, drew in a long breath and lowered his head to mask his eyes again. “Where is she now?”
“In England still. I was going to see her, to – to break the news, but things… got away from me.” Which brought everything neatly full circle, tied off the loose ends. Otacon straightened away from the window. “That’s the end,” he said gruffly, striding slowly across the room towards Snake and, beyond him, the door. “If it’s any consolation, I doubt I could be any sicker with myself than I already am.” A poisonous parting gift. It occurred to him he’d never given any other kind.
Snake’s hand struck out serpent-fast to snare his arm as he walked by, holding him in place. Teeth set, tongue well back, Otacon turned for the blow. And found only a look of heavy weariness.
“Don’t be an idiot; it’s pouring, and you’re a mess. Stay here tonight.”
Otacon gaped for a moment, then pulled himself together. “Thanks, but I’d rather not flip for the cot,” he repeated stiffly.
“Then don’t; floor’s not gonna do me any harm, I’ve had worse.”
“After what I’ve just told you, you’re giving me your bed?”
Snake gave him a look so old it seemed almost reptile, cold and distant and utterly, utterly unconcerned with tiny misdemeanours. “You’re falling apart, and you’ve done something stupid. I’m not sure I’d blame you even if you weren’t. Don’t worry about it anymore. No one’s measuring your grief, and no one’s judging your repentance. And no amount of punishment will even the scales; you can’t bring her back. Don’t ruin your life trying.”
And just like that, Snake threw away the past. Or, at least, shrugged away the part involving him. A gesture which reminded the engineer he had the same power, could use it if he chose to. Had, in the past. It was suddenly ridiculously heady.
The warmth of Snake’s hand on his sleeve was seeping through to his skin, grip tight but not painful. He had been too occupied in deceiving himself earlier to notice it, but now next to the soldier Otacon noticed the scent of cigarette smoke and, fainter, rubbing alcohol. It wasn’t often Snake allowed strong smells to linger. Somehow it made him seem more vulnerable, a sentiment which was reinforced by the intensity now seeping in through the coldness in his eyes.
“Will you stay?”
Otacon sighed, shoulders slumping. He had absolutely no desire to stay; it would be awkward and uncomfortable. But he’d tangled himself far enough in the mess that leaving wouldn’t solve many more problems, and at worst Snake might follow him anyway.
“Alright. But don’t worry about the cot; I just got up anyway.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” Yes.
“I’ll make something.”
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Something turned out to be frozen lasagne heated in the oven. It wasn’t any odder to be eating lasagne for breakfast than it was to be eating breakfast at 9pm, and Otacon said nothing about it. Snake ate a second portion himself. Neither said a word, the awkwardness of silence quickly fading into an accepted state.
The problem lying unsettled between them was now the matter of their relationship. Otacon suspected Snake of being either afraid to bring it up with him in his current mood, or alternately of feeling that any answer given now would have too many other influences to be trustworthy. Otacon himself simply had no answer. He wasn’t in love with his partner. But he knew it wouldn’t take much effort to tempt a sapling from the seed of friendship between them.
We both wanted to be loved, so much.
Snake finished eating and cleaned up after the instant dinner. Tossed Otacon a cheap paperback – John Grisham, did anyone even still read him? – and headed for the bedroom. “I’m going to get some sleep now, so you can have the cot when you get tired.”
“Snake –”
“Don’t worry about the light; it’s not a problem.”
He didn’t close the door.
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He read more than 200 pages before interest in keeping busy stopped outweighing simple interest. He’d never had much time for wordy overly-technical fiction; what little he read were the usual sci-fi/fantasy staples, Hitch-hiker’s, Dune, some Pratchett. Rhapsody, if he was feeling particularly masochistic. Besides, as much as it was easier to not think right now, it was the easiness that came of irresponsibility and laziness. The kind of ease that blossomed very quickly into cruelty if not minded carefully.
He sat thinking for a while, eyes beginning to tire of the fluorescent light after hours with nothing else. Outside the rain had stopped, pattering gone silent without his noticing, but they were still hours away from dawn.
Thinking was good, was definitely something which couldn’t be forgotten, but it was thinking that had brought him this far. Or, more accurately, thinking on his own. Whatever else he might ignore, he could at least recognize that right now he was about as stable as an elephant balancing on a pinhead, and that his decisions were untrustworthy at best. But he was equally aware that they had to be made, and the longer they were left to lie fallow the more likely they were to be made by cold cost-benefit analysis rather than with heart.
It was unlikely Snake would be sleeping in any case.
The bedroom, lit only by the poor light pouring in from the main room, had a dimness that felt like dusk, and smelt of damp and carpet cleaner. Snake was lying still in the cot, a thin blanket thrown over his form. He had no pillow.
Otacon walked in slowly, trying to be quiet and then realising the absurdity of it. He sat down cross-legged by the head of the cot, with his back to it. And found that while he had plenty of words to carry a conversation with, he had none to start it with.
“Will you still go to England?” Snake’s voice was rough with sleep, so low that it was almost a whisper in the dimness. He would have wondered before at the soldier choosing that of all things to hold on to, but before was by definition before.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s kind of late now, but I guess I should offer what I can.”
“Don’t do it to hurt yourself. Don’t go if you have any ulterior motive at all. You’re not made for that; it will only backfire.”
“As we just proved.” He didn’t mean to snark, it was just the truth and it was there in all his thoughts, and then it was there between them, slipped out clean and slick as a hardboiled egg. “Sorry. You’re right.”
“It takes a very special kind of idiot to decide to hurt himself with love, you know.” Snake’s tone indicated a possibly one-of-the-kind idiot.
“Maybe I picked the idea up from you.” At Snake’s surprised hum, he continued, “You use the tools – the weapons – you have. A capacity to love like an idiot’s very nearly the only social skill I’ve ever had. If you could call it that.”
“Some people would call it a gift,” said Snake gently. And I am one of them, was implicit in the words.
“Some people have harder skins.”
“And that’s why they’ll never have it themselves.”
There was a pause, Otacon leaning back against the cot, the metal bar which supported the side cutting clean across his back.
“Have you changed your mind?”
“It’s not my mind that would need to be changed. I let my heart off its leash after Shadow Moses; it does what it wants now, but it’s not fickle.”
“I’m a walking curse, you know.”
“So,” said the soldier very plainly, “am I.”
“I … it’s too soon now. And maybe just too close to E- everything. But I won’t make you wait too long.”
“You don’t have to love me,” said Snake gruffly, shifting heavily in the cot, uncomfortable.
“I don’t have to drink coffee, or watch anime, or eat those little puff candy things, but I do them all anyway.”
“I’m not an addiction,” said Snake, sounding irritated.
“No. You’re the only person in the world who gives a damn about me. Who loves me. Do you think I would throw that away? I couldn’t.” Otacon shifted, pushed up his glasses for something to do with his hands. “And besides,” he added quietly, “you’re pretty much the only person I care for.” I still care for. The curse – he himself, perhaps – had gone through the rest like a scythe.
“Then I guess I’ll just have to wait for you,” answered the soldier, and the shade of obviousness in his tone made Otacon realise that he would have anyway. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about anything now. Grief had a way of tainting emotions, like an oil slick.
“And, Snake?”
“Hm?”
“Just … just for now, why don’t you go on calling me Otacon.”
“Right,” said Snake, in a soft tone that nevertheless had a hint of steel, and Otacon knew again that he would have regardless.
“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” It wouldn’t be much different than any other. She would still be dead. They would still be alive. That wouldn’t hurt any less, but maybe it would hurt a little differently. Maybe with grief for grief’s sake, not his. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be closer to right.
“Good night, Otacon.”
“Good night.”
