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The rule of probability meant that with every successful mission, you were bound to have a fuck up somewhere. And they’d been on a high streak recently - three missions in a row without hiccups, without issue. Snake got in, Snake got out, plans were snatched, C4 was planted, viruses were spread and all was well. For all intents and purposes, they were due for a disaster.
And Santa Fe was a disaster.
The moment boots hit the ground, he realized everything was off. The main layout was the same, sure, but the cameras were all at different angles. There was a new set of guards as well, inspecting in different patterns. And their handguns were gone, replaced by tranq guns.
It all went downhill from there. It became abundantly clear that this was a setup all along - either that or these facilities were starting to develop Solid Snake Protocols. Snake couldn't decide what was worse: the fact that these places were starting to practice in case he showed up or the fact that their orders had changed from "kill" to "capture". At the end of the day, it didn't matter - in for a penny, out for a pound, after all. He got his information and wasn't all that surprised when it set off an alarm. Sneaking through the air ducts was easy enough, but of course, just as he smelled the night air, said air duct had to break open and send him tumbling into a pair of rookies.
Snake’s run from gunfire before, but it was always to someone who could give covering fire, not to a panicking “otaku” who could barely hold the gun straight. His one saving grace was these rookies couldn't run worth a damn - after a moment, they were just firing wildly - but they got him. And they got him good. They got him damn good - getting grazed is one thing, getting a glute full of elephant tranquilizers was an entirely different story.
He was lucid enough to vault himself into the van and hear the wheels squeal against the asphalt.
And then, before he could explain what happened, he was gone.
And maybe it was kind of funny. Out of all the ways to die, a tranq to the ass was not on his imaginary list. He’d imagined something more…you know, heroic. Something with some meaning behind it - no one wanted a tombstone that read “died from an ass shot”.
Huh.
He wondered what Otacon would do now.
…He wondered what Otacon could do now.
Snake? Snake?!
There was a lot he hadn’t said, Snake thought, as he faded into blue, as the stars filled his mouth with light. A lot of things he’d been too nervous to speak, things he’d been scared of breathing life into.
Funny. You wouldn’t think The Solid Snake would be afraid of anything - but Dave was.
no no no no NO SNAKE!!
Dave was…well, he still called himself human, even after it all. And every human fears rejection, don’t they? That’s a totally, normal, human thing to be afraid of Dave thought as he fell into Europa’s icy arms. Let himself be bundled by Io, all billowing clouds of dust and debris.
dave…dave i’m sorry i’m so sorry this is all my fault
It’s beautiful, Dave thought, as the colors swirled and the cosmos began to pull him into its maw. He wished Hal could see it.
please don’t leave me….dave…
He wished Hal could be on Jupiter with him. He didn’t want to see it alone, they were supposed to see Jupiter together.
…you said you wouldn’t leave me alone…
They were supposed to go together
They were supposed to go
wait
wait, wait this isn’t right…
No.
They needed to wake up.
He needed to wake up.
This isn’t right, this isn’t how this ends, you needed to wake up NOW.
Wake up.
David, wake up.
WAKE UP.
and just like that: the world came flooding back.
blue and bronze and purple and gold and grey and BLUE AND
•••
David woke up.
His ass hurt. His arm hurt even more.
It was raining. He could smell the petrichor, could hear the rain as it splattered into the mud outside, onto the tin roof above. Cars passed, the smell of fresh earth and the mist of a summer storm following in the tracks of their tires.
Otacon sobbed above him, his head buried into Snake’s chest. From the way his sneaking suit was soaked, Otacon had been crying for a bit. He clearly hadn’t realized that Snake had awakened, too busy drowning his sorrows in his tears.
Snake smiled softly. It was...sweet how much Otacon cared.
Snake looked at him for a moment. From this angle, he could see the grains of Otacon’s hair, the way the grey was slowly fading away. That had been happening since Otacon moved in with him, gradually. A product of normal eating and exercise, Snake had joked, and Otacon had given him that little smile. It looked kind of funny at first, the way the chestnut brown had started to bleed through the silvery-grey. For a bit, it looked like a funky dye job by a fresh-faced college boy.
And honestly? It looked good on Otacon. Sure, he looked damn cute with the silver, but the brown? Oh, the brown made him look youthful. Made him look healthy and sweet, and so wonderfully handsome.
…Snake wasn’t quite sure why he thought that…
He wished he wasn’t wearing his gloves. Otacon’s hair had always been fluffy and soft and all he wanted was to run his hand through it, pet it down, ruffle it a little. His hand lingered for a moment before it brushed through those downy strands.
All at once the sobbing stopped and Otacon’s head shot up, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Illuminated by tears, shimmering in the dark of the van.
Like Io, Snake thought, Like Europa and Ganyamde and all those other moons
They stared at each other for a moment. Otacon’s face scrunched up and Oh Jeeze, here we go Snake thought.
“You’re…Dave you’re alive!”
He burst into a fresh set of sobs, launching himself onto Snake.
“Yeah, yeah, can you-Jesus, Otacon, can you take a deep breath?” Snake grumbled as Otacon practically mauled him, all arms and hands and runny, red nose, “I was just restin’ my eyes, calm down.”
“Calm down?!” Otacon practically shrieked, burying his head under Snake’s chin, snuggling so close it felt like he wanted to burrow into Snake’s chest, “You died! I-I couldn’t get a pulse, you were gone!”
“And now I’m back.” Snake sat up easily, pulling Otacon with him, “Kept you waiting, huh?”
Energy thrummed under his skin, electric and white hot. Snake’s fingers twitched, his jaw growing tight.
He eyed the syringe, tossed to his side, the needle capless.
“What-”
“I-I didn’t know what to do.” Otacon’s face scrunched again like he was about to start up a fresh set of tears, “I tried everything, I tried compressions, I tried yelling, you…”
There was a vial next to it. Even in the dark, Snake’s eyes could make out the fine lines of the printing on the tiny lettering, the neat little words.
Amphetamine Sulfate.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
•••
Dave remembered getting amphetamine shots when he was first starting Foxhound.
The rush, the euphoria of energy and concentration, the way his body just did what he was telling it. He could leap higher, he could run harder, he was impossible to stop - a lead dog, sprinting across the Kodiak, with nothing but the wind at its face and the adrenaline bursting from its heart.
And then he felt the side effects.
He’d joked to Naomi that Benzedrine made him frisky.
He’d been lying: it made him crazy.
Even now, in the mad rush to get out of Santa Fe, to pack what they could from their safehouse and get the fuck out of dodge until the heat died down, he could feel everything. Hear all.
As far as Otacon could tell, they weren’t being followed, but to believe they weren’t in deep trouble was naivete at its finest. So he high-tailed it to the squalid apartment they’d been renting. Snake had insisted on escape plans for everything and it was time to enact Plan Delta.
The teardown of the house took much longer than he would have liked - but it helped that they mostly lived out of boxes. Everything needed to be packed, nothing could be left in the apartment. The scramble must have looked somewhat amusing to their neighbors, but in a neighborhood that bad, who really cared? He’d ripped off the top of his sneaking suit at some point and yanked one of Otacon’s too-small shirts on, and a pair of old sweats in an attempt to look more “normal”.
He kept the bandana on, however. The idea of sweat rolling down his neck right now? Yeah. No thanks.
They said very little, but there was very little to be said - running past one another silently, tossing things helter-skelter into their boxes, and throwing them in the back of the Odyssey.
They’ll figure it out later. But there was no way they could risk losing all of their information. The months and months of working towards Philanthropy’s goal, the mounds and mounds of dirt they have on politicians and companies.
The last of the boxes were in the van. 16 minutes, a new record.
There was no time to celebrate - Snake made one last sweep through the apartment and, sufficiently pleased there was no trace of them left, slammed the door behind him. He took the steps two at a time - Otacon was already waiting in the car, nervously eyeing the black Chevy that had pulled into the parking lot.
Snake leaped into the back with the boxes and signaled Otacon to drive.
•••
The Odyssey was structured in kind of a funny way - it was your standard fair, a driver seat and a passenger, a few rows in the back, all laid down into the floor. Normally, boxes and containers were laid on the floor in an orderly position, a pallet laid over the top that could be used for additional storage or, should the need be, a pseudo-bed (Otacon had insisted on getting a foam rollout, had complained about his back so much that Snake finally relented). In their rush to leave Santa Fe, they’d put all of their boxes on the pallet, and, sure, that was going to be a pain to fix, but that was a problem for when they stopped. Snake was quietly thankful that the backseats weren’t laid into the floor, their items all shoved around them. It may not be organized, but it would do. And there was no stopping - not now, not as Otacon zoomed across the New Mexico highway, racking his brain of where to go. They couldn’t stop, not for gas, not at rest stops, because he could have sworn he kept seeing that black van behind them, the Chevy with the low lights, and the Oh So New Mexican license plate on the front.
And so he drove and he drove, weaving through traffic, his eyes trained on his rear mirror with a fervor.
And on the backseat lay Snake. His body curled, his face pushed into his arm. Sweat poured down his brow, the bandana struggling to keep the perspiration from his eyes. Otacon had thrown their quilt over him at the beginning of their drive, a flimsy attempt to cover Snake from prying eyes. He was sweltering under the blanket and entirely unwilling to remove it.
It was all too much. Too much and not enough. Snake could count the individual grains in the cloth seat below him, the rattle of their boxes and equipment was almost too much to bear. Otacon’s shirt was too small; he ripped it off with a growl, the threads snapping angrily, his skin prickling unpleasantly, and shoved it under his head like a pillow.
…it smelled nice.
“How do you feel?” Otacon asked eventually, one eye darting to the driver-side mirror once more.
“Don’t ask me stupid questions, how do you think I feel?” Snake growled, and then winced, realizing his callous mistake, “Shit - Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s not-”
“No, it was a pretty stupid question.” Otacon’s voice was tiny. Snake wanted to kick himself.
“I’m fine, I’m just. Ugh.” In his attempt to turn to look at Otacon, he rubbed his skin on the overly coarse (too scratchy, too stiff) polyester covering the seat. Dave resumed his curled position and talked through his tacky arm, “Listen, I’m just going to be straight with you: I’m not mad, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Okay.” Came Otacon’s soft voice from the driver’s seat.
“But Benzedrine just really fucks with me - don’t ask me why or how I found this out. I’m giving you fair warning now that I’m gonna be a goddamned prick for a while. Don’t take anything I say personally.”
“Okay.”
That wasn’t convincing. Dave ground his teeth together so hard he felt them crack - nothing about this felt good, not his heart doing overtime, not the way the cars around them felt too loud, the growl and snarl of rubber grinding across asphalt tearing at his nerves, not the fact that he wanted to cut his own flesh away and run off with just his bones.
“Hope you’ll still wanna talk to me when this wears off.” Dave joked miserably.
“Of course, I will.” Otacon said, a little too quickly, “Y-you deal with me when I’m hangry. And I drugged you. Turnabout is Fair Play, right?”
Dave managed a small laugh, “I don’t think those two equate. But okay. Sure.”
“Try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better after some rest.”
“Sure,” Dave said and closed his eyes.
And for the next few hours, they drove like that. Music made his skin crawl (originally, Otacon attempted to play classical music, in a bid to be “soothing” - Dave hadn’t realized how much he hated piccolos until right at that moment), so they listened to Public Radio, turned low enough to not be offensive on the ears.
There was something vaguely comforting about that. Dave liked to listen to people talk, liked listening to the passion that weaved into their words. That night there was a program about the ills of food deserts and the best ways to combat them. And so, as he listened to entrepreneurs with too many college degrees and not enough brains in their heads debate over solutions, he found some semblance of sleep.
It wasn’t very restful.
Snake’s body was still in full revolt when he awoke again. The program had changed, rerunning old episodes of A Mountain Apartment Stranger and Otacon was still driving. He forced his head upwards to peer into the night sky above - they were headed north, he realized, towards the Colorado border. The stars above glimmered through the tinted windows of the Odyssey, their brilliance smudged with dirt and dust.
He was also rock hard.
‘Well.’ Snake thought, ‘I did say I get frisky.’
This was the worst side effect - he could live with the overstimulation. He could live with sensory overload. He could deal with every rushing thought in his head, every smell he couldn’t understand, he could deal with all of that with the same grim stoicness that had done him so well.
It was this that made him crazy.
Arousal came on quick and made him hot. Hotter than he'd been at first - that was sticky and sweaty, this felt like he was searing, being cooked alive. The world (i.e.: the back seat of the Odyssey) swam and bobbed and Snake squeezed his eyes shut once more in an attempt to assuage the nausea that washed over him, the way his skin felt like it was broiled.
He curled further into himself and cupped his cock, swollen and aching. He hoped Otacon could stop soon.
It wouldn’t take long. A few good strokes and he’d at least be at a more even keel, able to think critically at least. He was no good like this and they needed to be alert. Maybe he could convince Otacon to pull over for some fresh air.
No good - they were trying to leave the state, it wasn’t like they had a lot of time for strolls around the freeway. Rest stops were no good either, too many cameras.
A truck stop?
That was an idea. There was normally so much traffic there, no one would notice him. Sneak in, grab some condoms and a nudie mag, and send Otacon away to get coffee.
…that could work.
He shook his head - no, no that could not work. They didn’t have time for distractions, every second in New Mexico was a second closer to being found.
He’d just have to deal with this, Snake decided, like he’d dealt with everything else in his life: improvisation. The Odyssey was dark, after all, the scant street lights were the only thing illuminating the interior. And it wasn’t like Otacon would hear him - if military life had taught him anything, it was how to jerk off when surrounded by others. He remembered those nights, fumbling with his briefs, fearful of being caught. Snake had learned the art of cumming quietly and taking care of the evidence quickly.
All he needed was a few strokes. And then he’d be good.
So, with one smooth motion, he sunk his hand down into the front of his pants. His cock, waiting for him, twitched with excitement. He took himself in hand and gripped tightly.
With quick, precise movements, he stimulated himself, rolling his thumb at the head of his prick and sliding down to the base. He tilted his head, one eye watching Otacon closely.
The scalding heat within him began to simmer, just slightly. His goddamned body was willing to cooperate, now that he was giving it what it wanted (Negotiating with a terrorist, Snake thought with grim humor).
He continued his fluid movements. Should Otacon turn behind him to look, he would just assume it was Snake being jostled by the road.
He twists his fist gently, biting his lower lip. What should have been easy and quick was taking way, way too long - Dave flipped through the images in his mind. Opens the catalog of his memory - past trists, every raunchy story he’d had hidden away on his bookshelf. For a moment his mind lingered on Frank.
He quickly turned the page on that - that can of worms would do him no good here.
Blood beads at Dave’s lip. He’s so close, he’s so goddamned close. The fire of arousal licks at him, claws at him, and all he needs is one push but nothing helps. Internally, Snake bemoans the loss of his raunchy penny romances - they always seemed to do the trick when he got like this.
There’s a subtle cant of his hips as he slowly fucks into his fist, squeezes it tighter. Cuts his eyes to peer behind him - Otacon’s still looking at the road. Snake pauses as Otacon reaches, but he’s just adjusting the radio, turning it up a hair.
He could look back at any minute. All it would take would be him checking the rearview mirror, just to check for the black Chevy and he’d see Dave pleasuring himself.
…And then what would he do? He wouldn’t be mad - Otacon rarely got “mad” at him. Even when he was annoyed at the smoking or the drinking, Otacon would just scold him with that cute little pout, the little crinkle between his eyebrows when he frowned. He’d put his hands on his hips like a goddamned school teacher and lecture and...
Fuck…
Dave remembered what his head was resting on. Two sizes too small and heather grey. The fabric had a vaguely clean smell - arm and hammer and irish spring, and a hint of Hal’s deodorant. A hint of his skin.
Dave turned his head, taking a deep breath.
And…and faintest touches of tobacco.
Was he really around Dave that much? Otacon hated the smell of cigarettes, but he was always lurking around when Dave went out to smoke (if only to nag him to stop).
Tobacco and Irish spring and arm and hammer…and the nice clean way Otacon would smell after a hot shower when the freckles on his lower back would stand out against his pale skin. Little hints of clean sweat, his natural musk.
Snake’s cock jumped.
He pressed his nose against the t-shirt and took another deep breath. The smell flooded his senses, his cock roaring with life.
Images formed beneath his eyelids - memories of the night before their mission.
The pre-mission anxiety was a constant for Otacon, he'd spent most of the evening re-reviewing protocols and ensuring everything in Snake's suit was up to date. Otaon had a tendency to "dote" on him before sending him out into the field - did you eat? Are you drinking water? No, put the cigarettes away, Dave, put them away. At first, he'd felt stifled - but it became quickly apparent that it wasn't about control, not really. Otacon was worried about him. Wanted him to be fit and in fighting order, so to speak.
Eventually, Snake was able to coax Otacon to take a break, get some rest. Take a shower, Snake insisted, that would relax him. Otacon agreed, running his hands through his fluffy hair.
Snake watched the news. Listened to the shower turn on, turn off and eventually for Hal to curse and call out into the hall that he'd "forgotten his towel!". They'd be naked around each other before, it was part of the territory, so Snake wasn't phased as he heard Otacon skitter into the bedroom, tracking pools of water behind him. After a moment, Snake stood and yanked a towel from one of the boxes, padding over to the bedroom to hand it over.
The door was open a crack. Naked, soaking wet, Otacon was crouched, fumbling through a pile of clothes, looking for a towel of his own. Water sluiced down his back. Snake hadn’t meant to stare at the constellations that dotted his skin, the way his hair was slick against his neck. The muscles that were slowly building in his upper arms and how they made his chest look good, look more solid.
He couldn't push the door open. He couldn't step away.
He was transfixed, staring as Hal stood, his hands on his hips, looking about. Snake’s eyes darted down to the thatch of hair, fluffy and thick, that curled between his legs, the little curve of his hips that he hid beneath too-big jeans and too-heavy jackets.
He hadn’t meant to look. Hadn’t meant to stare. He played it off when Hal stormed towards the door and jumped in surprise when he yanked open the door and saw Snake standing there.
"You scared me!" Hal exclaimed, covering himself out of instinct.
"Brought you this," Snake grumbled, shoving the towel to him and turning on his heel, waving it off when Hal thanked him cheerfully. He'd returned to his seat on the couch and tried to focus.
But oh how he wanted. How he coveted, wanted to bow between Hal’s legs and venerate him with his tongue, beg for his affection with his fingers. Wanted to listen to Hal beg and plead, wanted him to wind his fingers into Dave’s hair while he was pleasured, while Dave held him down by the jut of his hip bones. He wanted Hal to call out his name and he
Wants it now, he wants and he wants, while he’s being rocked in the minivan he'd once hated (and was now utterly thankful for).
His mind (traitorous, wretched) flooded with fantasy. What if Hal hadn’t immediately forgiven him when he saw him at the door? What if he’d realized what was going on immediately, what if he’d grabbed Snake by the hair and dragged him down while scolding him. Who gave you the right to snoop, he’d say, while pushing Snake’s face between his legs, If you want to see it so bad, why don’t I show you?
What if Hal rode his mouth until Dave’s chin was drenched in wet and his lips were raw, Oh gosh, Dave, your tongue is so good. And then, what if Hal wrenched him back up and pushed him onto the bed while gripping his ass. What if Hal opened him up on his packer, what if Hal made him beg and plead to be bred up, to be filled and used, Show me how good you can be, Davey, show me you deserve to be inside me.
What if Hal pulled his head to the side by his mane and growled in his ear Good Boy.
It happened so quick Dave could barely hold in his groan as he came, cum splattering through his fingers. All at once, the fire across his skin began to cool and the nausea eeked from his stomach.
This was better. He could get some sleep now, at least. Snake could laugh - once, in the early years, when Master Miller learned about his intense reaction to benzedrine shots (Snake had been running laps for a good three hours, just to try to feel “normal” again), he’d teased him gently (as gently as Hellmaster Miller could). But after a while, he’d admitted that Snake wasn’t alone.
“Had that happen to me. Something like it,” he’d mentioned around his cigarette, watching Snake drop to the ground and begin a set of frantic push-ups. “More or less. Best way I could describe it is I’d been infected by something that made dog in heat for a few days. Jumped my boss’s bones - was a goddamned mess for a while. Hell, sometimes I still feel it, it was that strong…enjoy it while it lasts, rookie, someday your knees’ll hurt too much to do anything about it. And then what, you’ll be jerking off in some dark room, just to keep sane.”
At the time, the Master laughed like he’d told some great joke. Had hoisted Snake up by the collar to drag him back to his bunk for whiskey and “one on one time”.
Snake knew that old bastard was smart, but he sure as shit didn’t know he was psychic.
Otacon seemed to be invested in the debate over the radio, mumbling to himself at how stupid the talking heads sounded. Snake felt the car turn as they eased on the freeway and, with every passing mile, his anxiety began to simmer.
“Just an hour to Arizona”, Otacon mumbled from the front seat, “We’ll be fine from there.”
Exhaustion fell over Snake. He nestled into the blanket and, absentmindedly, he pulled his sticky hand to his mouth and lapped at his own release, cleaning his fingers.
Unsanitary? Sure, but it got the job done. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had in his mouth, for sure.
And once he was clean, Snake let his eyes flutter shut and he quickly fell into a fitful sleep.
In the front seat, Otacon said nothing. He gripped the wheel tighter and pretended he didn’t see his knuckles growing white and swallowed.
His tongue felt sticky.