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It’s a relief to be back in the air.
He’s not a military man, by any means; never has been, in spite of Snake’s dogged attempts to train him otherwise over the years. But if their work has taught him anything, it’s that sitting too long in one place – drawing attention; bright colors, too much eye contact – is an indulgence that’s rarely worth the risk.
It’s a sad commentary on the state of their existence, maybe, when something as perfectly human and ordinary as a wedding can seed anxiety at the back of his mind. Gnawing, uneasy. Seems… incautious. A gathering of targets. Too exposed.
Movement feels like safety; second nature, now, after so many years on the run. The instinctive flinch away from danger. Foxes, flushed before the hounds.
Getting some geographical distance from that God-forsaken cemetery might be part of it as well, if he’s being honest. Away from the malignant echoes there, that won’t let his partner go. Alive and safe. Against the odds, maybe, they both are – one more day, and the day after that, and on for as long as they can. Another minor miracle that he doesn’t dare examine too closely.
When the sun sinks red and bleeding into the clouds, he puts his daughter to bed.
Sunny takes everything in with a child’s wide-eyed acceptance, unfazed. The helter-skelter whiplash of joy, and sadness, and surprise; the unexpected turbulence of a rainstorm in hazy sun. Too young yet to understand that the world is a terrifying and unpredictable place. He envies her that, sometimes. Wishes it could last.
He slips out of her room and pauses by the sink for a glass of water; a few moments to collect himself. Down to the office by the light from the kitchen and finds Snake, alone on the couch beside his desk.
Not smoking, or reading, or sorting through equipment. Not pacing the floor like a restless animal; growling with barely disguised discontent.
Just sitting.
It’s a rare enough thing that he actually holds his breath for a moment. Perfectly still at the foot of the stairs, allowed to really look.
He’s watched it growing in his partner like a cancer since they left the Middle East, a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep won’t fix, and he curses Roy Campbell again with a bitterness that he hadn’t expected to feel. He’d seen it on Snake’s face, lying on his side in that hellish hallway while Hal begged him through tears to get up; and when his chest hurts so much he can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t sit upright, and there’s nothing Hal can do but pretend he doesn’t see, and turn away.
Above everything else, Snake has never wanted his pity.
He sees it now, in the defeated set of his shoulders; head dropped back against the wall, eyes closed, hands slack at his sides for the space of a few stolen seconds because he thinks Hal isn’t watching. Completely and utterly spent.
Used up, in every way possible.
In all the spaces between their words, of late; the things said and not said, this is what Hal has come to understand. The extent to which you can grieve a loss before it happens. Miss someone, before they’re gone.
The legendary Solid Snake can dispatch half a dozen heavily armed men with a combat knife and a handgun at close range, even now; can take down a nuclear-capable battle tank, on foot. Can push himself beyond the limits of his body’s endurance, and somehow manage to stay on his feet through sheer stubborn willpower alone. Hal had once believed, without the slightest tinge of irony, that his partner could do absolutely anything.
But what he can’t do – what he could never do – is stop.
Stand down and close his eyes, for once in all the time they’ve known each other, and let someone else shield him from the fire. The one thing Hal has never been able to convince him of, though not for lack of trying; that his life is worth as much as whatever he thinks he owes the world. That it’s enough. That he doesn’t have to brave the gauntlet, anymore, or keep watch while everything burns.
He shifts his weight sideways, deliberately. A footfall on the part of the floor that squeaks; clears his throat, and breaks the silence.
Snake’s head is up in the space of a single indrawn breath, a hand scrubbing over his face. Tracking Hal’s movement toward the computer desk, eyes half-open. Tired.
He moves to one side, where he sits. Making room.
“She go down okay?”
“Yeah. Out like a light. I think all the excitement wore her out.” Hal accepts the wordless invitation; sinks gratefully onto the cushioned seat. “Bad news, though – she wants a wedding dress now.”
Snake snorts; an anemic huff of breath that’s barely audible.
“We’re out of our depth already, then,” he says. “That didn’t take long.”
He moves without thinking to touch Snake’s shoulder, reaching out with one arm to pull him close; old habits. Tentative, half-expecting a rebuff – but Snake wants it as much as he does, or maybe he’s just too exhausted, finally, to keep up the pretense that he’s fine. Already shifting, folding his legs, lowering himself to lie down as best he can in the space that’s left.
Hal adjusts his position a bit, scooting toward the arm of the sofa to help make them both more comfortable – a hand on Snake’s hip, easing him back. They fit together as effortlessly as they ever have and something burns fiercely in his chest to feel that this, at least, hasn’t changed.
“I’m glad you came back. Came home, I mean.”
The words are out before he can stop them. It’s selfish. He knows that. Snake has earned his peace – more than earned it – and however he wants to find it, it’s not for him to judge. But he also believes, in his heart of hearts, that the bravest man he’s ever known does not deserve to die alone on a sunny day with a gun in his mouth.
Snake doesn’t echo the sentiment, and Hal lets the quiet settle; tries not to begrudge him whatever he feels. His partner’s strength is gone – bulletproof glass; a hairline crack. He lies in Hal’s arms, faded and insubstantial; stifles a cough somewhere deep in his chest while Hal squeezes his shoulder and grits his teeth, forgets to breathe.
It frightens him.
There’s precious little to be glad about, these days. He’ll take what he can get.
Snake’s head is heavy in his lap. One hand comes up to knead convulsively at Hal’s thigh; searching, whether in an attempt to get him hard or simply for the comfort of physical contact he can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. He strokes back the sweat-damp hair just above Snake’s ear, thumb rubbing slow circles on the skin, and his partner quiets.
“It’s okay,” Hal whispers. “I’m fine. I don’t need anything.”
“Want to,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the space between Hal’s legs. “Just – don’t think I can.”
“It’s okay,” he says again, and he means it. This is all he wants right now; all he’s ever wanted, for as long as he can have it.
It’s peaceful in the slanting half-light, and they take it in for a time without speaking; the silence feels easy, familiar, under the droning of the Nomad’s engines. Idly, he allows his hand to wander; traces the line of Snake’s throat, up to the pulse point under his jaw and allows his fingertips to rest there, warm and steady.
Feels the blood beneath the skin.
He thinks about the sunrise in Alaska. Snowshoes and sled dogs, and wool socks in the house. Shitty instant coffee in an electric kettle. The morning they sat side by side at a dusty kitchen table and hatched a plan to change the world, and he’d felt sure of what he wanted for the first time in his life.
Snake can hear the words he doesn’t say; reads his thoughts and fears and worries in the halting touch of his hand the way he always has. He knows, even now when it can’t possibly make any difference – squeezes his knee as if in reassurance and eases out a slow, shuddering breath against his leg.
“Are you in pain?”
The silver head beneath his hand gives a quiet half-shake, as Hal’s fingers brush lightly through his hair. His eyes are closed. “Not right now.”
This is all relative, and he knows it.
Would you tell me if you were?
Tears have always been the language of his grief. For Wolf. For E.E., and even Naomi.
For Snake, he finds he cannot cry. There is something else, instead; a searing, watercolor shade of pain he’s never known. A dry, hollow ache behind the eyes, a kind of hiccupping emptiness that’s infinitely worse. The inner surface of his chest, scraped raw.
And so, he functions. They both do. One foot in front of the other, marching in easy lockstep the way they always have. Briefings, and debriefings. Equipment checks.
Snake is not always a soldier, anymore. Not when it comes to Hal and Sunny, and less so in recent years than he used to be, fresh from the bloody aftermath of Shadow Moses; but he was a soldier first. There was a time when that was all he knew. And when he’s afraid, he falls back on what he trusts – the rigid stoicism that has always served him well.
The mission is what counts. Once more unto the breach, one last time.
Hal understands it. Truly, he does.
But sometimes, in the flickering dark of his office at night, he grieves for that too.
The muscles on either side of his partner’s spine are tight, knotted, and Hal presses along the part of his neck that he can reach with his thumb and forefinger – hesitantly at first, then with more confidence when he encounters no objection. Steady pressure, until he feels the tension there begin to ease and Snake makes a rumbling noise deep in his throat like a cat.
It’s been months since he’s allowed Hal to touch him like this. Something inside has shifted, finally; dead things and detritus tumbling downstream with a kind of frenetic momentum that he doesn’t dare to question – thank Big Boss for that, if nothing else – and dear God, he’s missed it. Would give anything in the world to sit just like this for the rest of his life; the two of them together in a steel-cased bell jar, breathing the same air.
Fossilized creatures trapped in resin. A slow suffocation, above the clouds.
His hands recall the fit and feel of his partner’s body without the need for conscious thought, as familiar as his own after so many years, and something prickles fever-bright and stinging in the light that glints across the floor from the west-facing window. He breathes in the sensations like a drowning man, thirsty, clinging tight to something solid – the feel of soft fabric and warm skin, more fragile now than it used to be. The rise and fall of Snake’s back against his hip with each breath.
It feels good like this, safe, the weight of it thrumming along his nerves like a bass note and his muscle memory takes over of its own accord; tracing his hand down the hard lines of Snake’s rib cage, the lean curve of his flank, sliding up under the cotton shirt to rest flat over his belly, stroking the planes of his chest; then back down to start again. Gentle. Unhurried.
He closes his eyes to savor the feel of it, loses himself, grips a bit tighter; thumbing at the sensitive skin just below Snake’s hip where he’s always loved to be touched and at this – finally – his partner exhales softly, flexes his thighs the way he’s felt a thousand times before. Slowly, lazily, seeking out half-hearted friction against the cushions as he feels Hal’s hand squeezing his buttocks, tracing the cleft of his ass.
It’s too much, maybe. Something he shouldn’t ask. Snake has nothing left to spare for this tonight, hovering on the edge of sleep, so tired that Hal can feel it in the way the muscles move, sore and spent against his body. But his partner tries, in spite of everything; reaching for Hal’s inseam again, calloused touch through denim on his inner thigh.
Wants to, God. They both do.
“Let me,” Hal whispers. He leans down to brush careful lips against Snake’s face, the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. Just lie still, and let me.”
Please.
Snake shifts a little in the narrow space to give him access, and Hal works carefully at the buttoned fly of his fatigues until he can slip one hand inside. He brushes gentle fingers over the familiar bulge of Snake’s cock, still soft, stroking tenderly over the thin fabric of his underwear as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck.
His partner’s skin tastes of perspiration and cigarette smoke, smells like trust and safety and home and it’s enough; it has to be, and he couldn’t stop now if he wanted to.
He slides a thumb under the waistband of his underwear; rubbing softly at the coarse hair trailing down toward his prick, asking permission, and Snake complies – lifting his hips to wriggle out of his trousers and boxer-briefs as Hal tugs them down around his thighs, just enough to ease his cock free of its confines. Hal touches it carefully, almost reverently; wraps his fingers around the shaft and feels it twitch against his palm as Snake lets out a quiet breath.
His legs tense a little as Hal gives him an experimental stroke, then relax again as he moves lower. Snake grunts at him. “Always such a tease.”
“Says the man who likes to grab my ass in front of company.” He brushes his knuckles over the base of Snake’s prick – playful for just a moment. Ticklish. Soapy hands in the shower; bent over his computer desk, disheveled. “Unless you want me to stop?”
Wordlessly, with only a momentary tightening of his features betraying the effort it takes, Snake twists his body to lie more comfortably on his back; scoots himself a bit higher on Hal’s lap, uses one hand to slide his trousers down further toward his knees. Giving him room to work. Heavy-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal, watching Hal’s hand as it moves.
God, yes.
He cradles Snake’s head against his chest, gentle; careful of the raw skin and healing burns on his left side. Brings one leg up onto the couch and situates himself with his back to the filing cabinet for a better angle. Both hands free, now. He caresses the inside of Snake’s thigh, scratching lightly with his fingernails, urging him to spread his legs a bit more.
There. Snake puts a hand on his forearm, squeezing his wrist.
He traces the hot crease of muscle at his groin; cups his balls in a careful hand and fondles them, reveling in how they feel, smooth and firm inside the delicate overlying skin. Presses them gently up against the warmth of Snake’s body, still cradled in his palm, and reaches with two fingers to put firm, insistent pressure on the sensitive spot beneath them. Teases his entrance, further back.
Snake makes a quiet choking sound at that, canting his body up into Hal’s fingers as if he can’t help it, and his cock gives a little jump – dusky red now, getting harder. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment as he tries to get control of himself and Hal thinks, inexplicably, that it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He’s getting hard, himself; loves his partner’s body, even now, more exquisitely precious to him than it’s ever been, but the familiar pooling heat barely registers. Right now, there’s only this – nothing in the world that matters except Snake coming slowly undone in his arms, thighs shaking a little where Hal touches him, squirming against his hand for more contact.
Something burning in his eyelashes; crystalline salt.
Snake is barely hanging on, now. Wants to touch himself. He can feel it in the way his knees are bent, breathing hard, fingers twitching on his stomach like they do when he wants to smoke. Hal kisses him again, long and slow. Feels the answering whisper on his lips; cursing, affectionate. Wets the tips of his fingers. Tastes Snake’s body on his hand.
He has always, always – from the very first time he ever wrapped his fist around it, felt the smooth weight of it in his palm; on his tongue, inside the deepest parts of his body with both of them sweaty and unraveling in an unending series of shithole apartments across the continental U.S. – been utterly entranced by his partner’s cock.
Now, he traces slick fingers up and over the shaft; lying velvety smooth and leaking against Snake’s stomach, shirt bunched up around his ribs so Hal can see. As breathtaking as it’s ever been.
He wants to take it in his mouth, down on his knees like a penitent. Feel the bitter-slick fullness of it at the back of his throat, swallow everything Snake has to give until he’s weak-kneed and gasping for breath and feeling no pain at all; but his partner’s back is warm against his legs, his chest. Loose-limbed and drowsy in his arms.
So, he does the best he can. Pours everything in the world he’s ever been willing to die for into the practiced touch of his hand. Sets a steady rhythm; careful friction, just enough. All the things he wants, and feels, and cannot bear to lose.
In his lap, Snake’s body stiffens.
“Fuck, Hal – ” he groans, and his hand fists itself in Hal’s turtleneck. Then his abdominal muscles are tight, trembling, hips bucking up into his hand and Hal strokes him through it; mouths the stubbled line of his jaw, kisses his forehead, and holds on with all the strength he has.
Sits in the urgent quiet that follows with his face in Snake’s hair, glasses pressed askew, and listens to the ragged sound of his breath. Feels the trembling muscles relax; dry lips against the the crook of his elbow, the wiry scrape of a kiss.
Finally – he stirs himself, reluctant. Slips out from under Snake’s body with a few murmured words.
Warm water. A clean washcloth, folded. Ten years, almost; but these things still matter. Takes care of the mess, tucks everything in. Fetches a spare blanket from the bed.
When it’s done, he sits cross-legged on the floor; easy, comfortable, in spite of the cool unyielding steel against the bones in his ankles. Leans against the sofa cushions, head pillowed on one arm. Near enough to touch.
In the darkened room, he ponders.
“So,” he says at last. Hesitant, still, for some reason. “Where to from here, do you think? I mean – where should we go?”
Snake grunts.
“Wherever we damn well want to,” he says, darkly. His voice is hoarse; rough and hard as limestone, like it hurts to talk. “If the colonel needs any more favors, he’s shit out of luck.”
“Montana’s supposed to be beautiful, in the fall. Or Wyoming.” He watches Snake’s face carefully, sees the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Canada, maybe?”
Someplace with empty land, and quiet cabins in the trees. Someplace with snow.
“You’ll freeze.”
“Pretty sure I still have a few pairs of thermal underwear around here somewhere,” he says. “In several colors. Good for layering. Lined with fleece.” A kiss, again. Soft. “I’ll risk it.”
“Sunny will be bored to tears.”
“We’ll get her a snowsuit. Let her go outside and play.” He thinks about this. Waits for the inevitable reflex; the clenching cold fist of dread behind his ribcage, but it doesn’t come. It’s a start.
Silence descends again and this time, he lets it sit.
He’s dozing, just a little; warm in the drowsy dark when Snake’s voice stirs him from his thoughts. One word – his name, barely a whisper. An incantation. A question, by itself. Something he wants to ask.
“Otacon,” he says again. “Otacon. Do you – ”
His partner stops, and the words hang in the air, uncertain. He waits.
Snake tries again; retreats. Says, finally:
“Has it been… worth something, all these years? Was it what you wanted?”
This is a different question, but he understands it anyway.
He thinks about his own words, so hopelessly naïve, high up in a freezing steel tower the day they first met. And then on a battlefield, of sorts – under a cut-glass sky with their breath frosting the air, where he’d first realized how inextricably love and loss are linked.
So long ago, now. A lifetime ago.
For all that they’ve been through – all the catastrophes and near misses, the lazy mornings entwined in each other’s bodies and the long nights on the road, this is something they’ve never said out loud.
Go on, then.
Ask me.
“Of course I do. You know I do.” Hal smiles at him, just a little. It’s painful in a way he hadn’t expected, but still there, still something warm and real. “You’ve always known that.”
Snake doesn’t say anything more. But he grips Hal’s shoulder with one hand, lying on his back with his eyes closed and his body soft and slack; rests the side of his head against Hal’s arm, and it’s answer enough.
They can be soldiers again tomorrow, if they need to.
Tonight, he sits awake so Snake can sleep.