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The slam of the front door cracks through the safehouse silence like a gunshot.
Before he knows it, Hal’s half out of his chair, arm reflexively snapping out to the handgun lying at the edge of the kitchen table.
He’s got the barrel raised and the safety disengaged before he blinks and realizes what, or rather, who, is standing in the doorway.
It’s Snake.
And he’s alive.
Hal sets the gun down carefully and stares a moment before blinking hard, like he’s afraid Snake’s a hallucination that might fade away.
From the kitchen table, his view of his partner is partially obscured by the three screens in front of him, all of which display different sets of vitals data he’s been obsessing over all night; numbers and percentages that had convinced him, just hours ago, that Snake was dead. Or, at least, pretty damn close to it.
Snake had been mid-exfil when his vitals had flatlined with no warning, codec cutting out seconds later. Hal’s entire body had gone hot and cold at the same time, nearly settling into a panic attack before he came back to himself and scrambled to reprogram Snake’s nanos.
His fingers flew, shaking as he desperately edited code on the fly, forcing all of them into emergency life-support functions he’d never tested before. He didn’t know if they would respond with their comms connection severed, hadn’t known if the code would execute at all.
In those minutes, Hal thought he’d lost him. Thought that Snake was alone somewhere, dead or dying without anyway to call for backup.
Turns out he’d worried for nothing, because now Snake is standing no less than ten feet away. Moving. Breathing. Alive.
Hal’s chest feels hollow and full all at once, like his body can’t decide whether to collapse or burst. Snake, oblivious to his total shock, fishes a cigarette from a pack pulled out of his bag and sets it between his teeth.
Hal snorts. Of course.
His lighter, predictably, comes next, its tiny flame catching onto the foot.
Normally, Hal’s immediate reaction is to complain. He always complains about Snake’s smoking.
Usually, whenever he hears the click click click of Snake’s Zippo, a lecture’s already coming out of him before he even thinks about it: Snake, you know it’ll kill you. The smoke makes me dizzy. You reek like an ashtray. Can’t you go outside? Etcetera etcetera.
But right now, all he can do is stare.
He watches with wide eyes as Snake takes his first drag in hours, watches as Snake’s chest expands, jaw slackening with relief as he tilts his head back and smoke escapes his lips, battle-taut muscles finally loosening after a day’s worth of stress and tension.
Hal doesn’t complain about it because right now, every drag Snake takes is solid proof that he’s still here. Proof he made it back. Proof Hal didn’t lose him.
Hal feels his body go warm all over.
He knows how hypocritical he is. He’s the one always telling Snake to stop his filthy habit for a myriad of reasons: for his health, for his lungs, for the fact that it would save them a significant portion of Philanthropy’s budget.
But the truth is more… personal. Sure, half of him wants to save Snake from himself. But right now, the other half of him is inexplicably dizzy with want and relief.
Hal stands, and then his legs begin moving him closer before he knows it, walking fast like Snake is a bomb that needs to be defused. He crosses the small room and drags his partner into a kiss before Snake can exhale. All of his smoke seeps straight into Hal’s mouth.
Snake stills at first, evidently caught off guard. He lets out a little endearing “mmph” against Hal’s lips, and then he’s kissing back. Smoke and all. A jolt of arousal shoots through Hal’s body at the sound. His brain sparks at both Snake's enthusiastic reciprocation and the tiny little break in his partner's stoic demeanor.
The smoke burns his throat, scrapes it raw, makes him dizzy and lightheaded. He coughs hard into his elbow when they break apart, reeling back a few steps.
Snake laughs, fondly amused. The sound makes Hal's chest ache. He wants to remember it forever.
“Sorry,” Snake rasps, rough hand coming up to cup his cheek. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."
Hal doesn’t answer. His head’s spinning too fast for him to find the right words.
Instead, he surges forward again, covering Snake’s face in kisses, all over his lips, his cheeks, his throat. His skin tastes like sweat and salt.
It’s only after he’s pressed his lips into every inch of skin he can reach, that Hal finally forces himself to stop, allows himself to pull back, and look his partner square in the face.
The exhaustion is apparent in Snake’s eyes. He looks worn down to the bone. Whatever happened during his escape… Hal doesn’t even want to think about it. They can talk about it later. For now, Snake just looks tired. Tired, but alive, Hal reminds himself. Alive.
Snake takes a long drag of his cigarette. Blows it out of the corner of his mouth.
Hal traces his fingers along his partner’s arms, his torso, faintly dragging over old and fresh scars.
“Are you alright?” Otacon finally asks him. “You sure you’re okay?”
Snake nods, predictably.
Hal knows better. That’s what Snake says, but the reckoning will come later, once the adrenaline burns off, and the aches and bruises make themselves known. In the morning Snake will complain, ask for painkillers, and Hal will diligently provide them. For now, though, Snake’s body must be buzzing with too much adrenaline to notice.
“I’m fine,” Snake says. He tilts his head, brows creasing with concern. “Are you?”
Hal is confused for a moment before realizing that Snake’s referring to the smoke.
Normally, Hal would never come this close. He’s usually across the room by now, muttering his dissent and cracking open a window. But tonight… he’s enamored by it. By the ember, the way Snake’s mouth parts around the filter, the way the nicotine seems to make him relax in ways nothing else can.
And Hal, irrationally, wants to be a part of it.
Instead of explaining, he steps forward, tilts his chin up, until their faces are nearly touching, with Snake’s cigarette less than an inch from his nose. His eyes flick to it once, then back to Snake’s heavy gaze, holding eye contact. A silent dare.
Snake studies him for a long moment, gears clearly shifting in his head, as he tries to parse him out. Then he drags deep on the cigarette, holds the smoke, and lifts a hand to Hal’s face. He gently grasps Hal by the jaw, and the sensation of Snake's thumb digging gently into his thyroid makes him shudder. Their eyes lock. Hal gives him a little nod.
Go ahead. Do it.
Snake tilts Hal’s head back just enough and exhales into him with intention.
Hal moans, moving closer and subconsciously grinding against Snake’s thigh. It tastes absolutely disgusting. He wants more.
Their mouths crash together after that, tongues and smoke trading between them desperately. Snake releases his grip on his neck and presses into him with his whole body, walking him back until Hal’s pinned against the wall, heartbeat pulsing in his ears.
Hal’s eyes catch on Snake’s hands, at the dirt under his nails, the cuts across his knuckles. Studies the way he handles the cigarette at his ear level like it’s a delicate, precious little thing.
Snake notices, follows his line of sight before smirking. He offers it with two fingers. “Wanna try?” he asks.
Hal hesitates. He shouldn’t. He’s never wanted to, never has. But he also isn’t thinking straight.
Right now he's so dizzy from Snake’s secondhand smoke, feeling all sorts of strange from the fear-turned-relief coursing through his veins, and so unfathomably aroused by the offer, that without answering he plucks the cigarette from Snake’s fingers and drags on it the way he’s seen Snake do a hundred times before.
The burn is immediately more concentrated than he’d ever expected. Hal inhales too fast, and the smoke shocks his lungs, nearly suffocating him. He hands the cigarette back quickly, coughing and gasping for air.
He realizes then and there that it isn’t the cigarette he wants at all. What he wants- what he’s always wanted- is Snake. Snake’s breath in his lungs, Snake’s lips on his, Snake's body pressed against him, solid and alive. Hal loves every little aspect of him, including his filthy habits.
They grind against each other, seeking out friction between their clothes. His partner’s erection is visible through the bottom half of his skin-tight sneaking suit. With every passing second the fabric between them grows more and more unbearable.
As if reading his mind, Snake’s hand drops to his waist, tugging at Hal’s jeans and boxers, yanking clumsily at the fly even as his other hand handles the cigarette. Hal does the same for him, peeling down the suit just enough for Snake’s cock to spring free, until they’re rubbing against each other, skin on skin.
Snake spits into his palm and takes both of them in his fist at once, squeezing. The first long stroke makes Hal whine into his mouth, hips jerking upward to stay in his grip.
Snake's other hand keeps the cigarette steady, glowing tip flaring each time he takes another drag, ash spilling heedlessly to the floor.
Hal claws at his partner’s shoulders for purchase, mouth parted, desperate for another breath of smoke, which Snake quickly provides.
The taste still makes him sick, the smell still makes him ache, but he’s inexplicably dizzy with want. There are tears pooling in his eyes. It isn’t because of the smoke.
“I thought I lost you,” Hal breathes between gasps. “The nanos said– you weren’t breathing– and–” His words dissolve into nonsense as Snake twists his grip, quickens his pace.
“Takes more than that,” Snake murmurs, planting a soft, reassuring kiss near Hal’s ear, strokes changing from rhythmic to desperate. Hal realizes then that Snake’s trembling too, albeit less so. His partner's voice is still slightly shaky with leftover adrenaline.
Hal whines, rutting helplessly into Snake’s fist, squeezing his eyes shut. “Snake… God… Keep going–”
Snake listens. Keeps pumping their cocks like it’s his one and only mission.
Hal drags his eyes open and the sight of Snake, exhausted, flustered, smoking, and alive- sends him over the edge. His body jerks as he comes hard across Snake’s knuckles with a stifled, broken gasp.
For just a moment, Snake’s strokes falter, then tighten again, until his partner’s hips buck forward, unable to stop himself. “Hal,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes squeezing tight as he comes. “Hal…”
They lean into eachother and Hal pants hard, chest heaving, leaning forward to mouth blindly at Snake’s jaw, yearning for more contact, for Snake’s skin beneath his lips.
Snake lets him, hand still wrapped loosely around both of softening cocks, unwilling to break his touch just yet, perfectly content to linger in the wake of it all.
The cigarette has burned down to a stub now, the majority of it reduced to ash that’s made a mess at their feet.
Eventually, though, Hal lets out a deep exhale, and Snake lets go, palm sliding down Hal’s thigh before falling away.
Hal swallows, heart still hammering, head still dizzy, and forces his gaze up. He always gets shy afterwards in the aftermath, even though he has no real reason to be.
When he looks up, Snake is already watching him, blue eyes staring fondly behind thick lashes, bright with life. Beautiful in a way Hal’s always thrilled to see. Hal gives him a small, shaky smile.
Snake returns it, and then his gaze turns downward to the mess of ash at their feet. He frowns. Hal brushes the hair that falls into his partner’s eyes.
“Don’t worry about that,” Hal murmurs. “I’ll clean that up later. For now… come on. Let’s go shower.”
“Shower...” Snake repeats, voice comically flat considering what they’ve just done. To be fair, Snake sounds exhausted enough to keel over on the spot. Hal knows a shower is probably the last thing he wants to do.
“Come on,” Hal insists, half-laughing and tugging at Snake’s wrist. Snake humors him and lets Hal pull him towards the bathroom. “I smell like cigarettes because of you.”