The thing straddling your chest
Title: Nightmare
Rating: G
Pairing: Snake/Otacon, mostly friendship, some one-sided stuff.
Summary: Those dreams- they are not dreams. They are reliving, they are telling and retelling, they are the reality that sidles in, and after all is said and done, there is nothing that you can do about them. Especially not if you keep blaming it on the building.
Notes: Uh, yeah, wrote this real quick. Not sure of the characterizations.
Edit: Note #2: *ahem* In the name of characterization, I can't in good faith let the "worshiped like a God" line stand. While Otacon clearly admires Snake and his prowess, it gives off the wrong feel. So, if future readers are wondering "wtf is the line with 'worshiped like a god'?", it is no more.
There was one thing that he perversely missed about those Alaskan base walls.
They were pretty damn thick.
Now, in the midst of a million or so people, in a building that was undoubtedly older than his grandfather, Otacon could very clearly hear the sounds of them man sleeping in the room just beyond his computer screen. Now, it wasn't the man that he minded- not in the least. The man himself Otacon alternated between admiring and being totally bewildered at, with a few moments of frustration thrown in for measure. Occasionally the words, "in awe of" sprang into his mind, which always took him aback. Trust his mind to come up with something as melodramatic as that, particularly after having watched too many animes. Maybe it was partially Snake's fault, since some of the stunts he pulled tended to remind him rather strongly of their contents.
Speaking of late hours- it was the sleeping habits of the soldier that disturbed him. Snake slept regularly when he could, and despite the incredible amounts of physical exercise he was accustomed to doing, sometimes his brain just wouldn't oblige and shut down properly. Or, at least, that's how Otacon saw it.
A strangled sigh misted the flat screen of the laptop sitting amongst the debris of his work, and he watched as his reflection's eyebrows drew together, and he reached out with the cuff of his sweatshirt sleeve and rubbed at the patch of gray, just as a muffled grunt and thump made him pause and lift his head.
Sounds of someone shifting on a sprung mattress, the box springs squealing lowly, bedcovers rustling. The long, steep sigh of someone going back to sleep- or waking up from a bad dream. He decided on the latter when Snake's feet landed on the carpet, and his footsteps took on an unusually heavy and unsteady tread as he padded through the small living room. The engineer craned in his seat to get a good look at the man who lived with him- and caught his breath in his throat, trapping his lower lip between his teeth before his face could crumple in dismay.
Snake looked easily ten years older. A feathering of gray at his temples, normally covered by his beloved bandana, were starkly offset by the dark brunet of the rest of the thick hair. He wondered how he could have missed them, and was aghast that he couldn’t really think of a reason. In the shallow light, the lines of his face seemed chiseled in by a careless workman, deep and lending too much sorrow. When Otacon had turned in his seat, the soldier tossed a look over his bare shoulder, and the dark bags beneath his eyes seemed to swallow any color, the effect rendering his face into a skull. Otacon felt his face twitch at the eerie image, and Snake looked away again, still moving. His movements had taken on a restless, furtive quality, almost hunted. He opened and shut drawers and cabinets with soft snarls at whatever he couldn't find, an occasional curse ripping at the air.
A crumpled pack of cigarettes were hastily snatched from the coffee table, the last of the cancer sticks pulled out and lit without ceremony or relish with the match Snake had procured from the drawer near the sink. The glow of the flame, cradled by one of Snake's knotted and calloused hands (and if Otacon wasn't just seeing things, trembling slightly) gave his eyes a dull glaze. When they finally lifted, after having made sure a good, strong stream of nicotine had been drawn into his bloodstream, Otacon felt for the third time that curious pause, almost like a misstep in his thinking, a stumble.
1000 yard stare. The thought flooded into his brain without beckon.
And, stupidly, all he could do was blink at this man who lived with him. Names spilled into his mouth, but his inability to chose one kept them trapped behind his teeth. So when he finally forced words out of his mouth, they came bare of an attachment.
"Are you okay?" He didn't like how strained his own voice was, the "s"s softened even further by lack of sleep. The acknowledgment of sleep deprivation made his eyes spontaneously feel as if they had been rolled in grit, and he reached up to stick his fingers under his glasses and rub at them.
It took him a couple of seconds to realize that Snake had not responded.
But it wasn't because he hadn't heard, Otacon saw when he extracted his fingers from his face, his glasses falling to bring the soldier into focus. Snake was staring at him rather hard, his mouth having taken on a decidedly granite quality, even as his lips softened to let out a plume of smoke.
"Snake?" He prompted the man, leaning slightly over his chair, the old wood creaking.
The still form didn't answer. Or, not directly. He stepped forward into the tired yellow light of the desk lamp, buried as it was beneath papers, and reached out a hand. It hesitated for a brief second, before settling it on Otacon's shoulder, fingers shifting as if he were getting a good feel of the scientist's skinny frame.
This was surreal. He furrowed his own brows, allowing the silence to stretch on between them. Gradually, Snake's hand lifted, leaving an impression of warmth, to gently touch the skin of Otacon's temple with one finger. The cigarette in the other hand was practicedly tapped, and for once Otacon didn't scold him about the ashes, even as they settled on the hardwood floor. The hand descended, settling on Otacon's collarbones, before sinking again to rest on his sternum.
The look in his eyes was clear enough to give the scientist a blinding flash of insight, usually reserved for obscure code or designs, into the mind of this man.
It wasn't really a conscious thought, Otacon decided. The hand resting on his chest was checking for the beating of his heart, and the finger on his temple had been to check the warmth of his skin, the hand on his shoulder to affirm he had not been-
"Snake, did you have a bad dream?" And with that mundanely phrased sentence, spoken with his usual tone and none of the fuzzy heralds of sleep deprivation, the weird spell that had seemed to fall over the room dissipated.
For Otacon, at least. Snake's gaze had not shortened, and he stared at Otacon with hollow eyes. The raspy grunt he gave might have been an affirmative or a dismissal. He stooped, his cheek inches from Otacon's, the long hair that fell forward smelled of the almost scentless and strange shampoo he always used. The memory of Snake explaining he had always used it in the army and in his FoxHound days sprang up confusedly, wrongly composed, and crumbled. A few beats passed, and Snake straightened, taking in a long, clean breath.
He blinked at Otacon, and then murmured, "You should get some sleep." The gaze fell to the smoldering butt of the cigarette, and Snake bent to meticulously scrape the ash from the floor, pinched the stub off, and deposited it and the ash into a tray. Without another word spared, he shuffled to the couch and dropped onto it. After a few seconds of just sitting, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands dug into his hair.
This was why Hal hated these buildings. (It's not the building, idiot-) Or rather, he hated that no matter how long he lived with Snake, and how well he knew the man, he could never dispell the simplest thing: a dream. The normal routes and tactics used for himself- or the rare others- were useless.
Snake's dreams were full of screams and blood, tracer fire and admissions at the pain of death. And although Otacon knew this on an intellectual level, the awareness that he would never understand left a stab of pain deep in his chest.
After a minute of aborted thoughts and plans of actions, Hal did what he eventually always did. He closed the screen of his laptop, stood from his chair, very careful not to let it scrape on the floor so that the soldier wouldn't jump, gained his land legs after having been sitting in one place for hours, and quietly scuffed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, the feeling of the man in the next room almost palpable, and spat. The dip down alerted him to the smell of recent vomit and Clorox, and he wondered if Snake's sleeping had been troubled all evening, even when Otacon had stepped out to get milk.
He paused in the junction between the living room, the sleeping rooms, and the bathroom, watching the soldier across the expanse of space. He had shifted, just so slightly, so that his hands were laced tightly across the back of his neck instead of twining in his hair, the muscles in his forearms cording and relaxing.
Words hesitated on his mouth, one idea deemed bad just as another tried to push it's way out and was rejected. Finally, he blurted, "Feel better, Snake." The maverick phrase made the other man lift his head, one hand coming down so he could look more fully at Otacon. For his own part, Otacon was privately relieved it had been one of the well-thought out things, instead of, "Even dolphins have bad dreams," which would have required a deal of explaining.
A tiny trail of relief brushed through him when a small, wry smile pulled at the corner of Snake's mouth, eyes looking at him and actually seeing the lank form in the doorway. "Get some sleep," the rough voice chided gently, with enough humor in it to make his statement seem like a guardian worrying over it's charge.
Otacon left the man to fight against his dreams, standing for an almost interminable while, before turning into the dark. Lying in his own bed (on the better of the two mattresses, which Snake had insisted upon), he stared at the ceiling and muttered a few invectives at the building. But, as with every other thing he blamed on it, he knew that it was just because he felt powerless himself to do what he felt he needed to do.
After all, how exactly would you go about trying to hug a seasoned soldier after he's had a bad dream, and still let him keep his dignity?
Rating: G
Pairing: Snake/Otacon, mostly friendship, some one-sided stuff.
Summary: Those dreams- they are not dreams. They are reliving, they are telling and retelling, they are the reality that sidles in, and after all is said and done, there is nothing that you can do about them. Especially not if you keep blaming it on the building.
Notes: Uh, yeah, wrote this real quick. Not sure of the characterizations.
Edit: Note #2: *ahem* In the name of characterization, I can't in good faith let the "worshiped like a God" line stand. While Otacon clearly admires Snake and his prowess, it gives off the wrong feel. So, if future readers are wondering "wtf is the line with 'worshiped like a god'?", it is no more.
There was one thing that he perversely missed about those Alaskan base walls.
They were pretty damn thick.
Now, in the midst of a million or so people, in a building that was undoubtedly older than his grandfather, Otacon could very clearly hear the sounds of them man sleeping in the room just beyond his computer screen. Now, it wasn't the man that he minded- not in the least. The man himself Otacon alternated between admiring and being totally bewildered at, with a few moments of frustration thrown in for measure. Occasionally the words, "in awe of" sprang into his mind, which always took him aback. Trust his mind to come up with something as melodramatic as that, particularly after having watched too many animes. Maybe it was partially Snake's fault, since some of the stunts he pulled tended to remind him rather strongly of their contents.
Speaking of late hours- it was the sleeping habits of the soldier that disturbed him. Snake slept regularly when he could, and despite the incredible amounts of physical exercise he was accustomed to doing, sometimes his brain just wouldn't oblige and shut down properly. Or, at least, that's how Otacon saw it.
A strangled sigh misted the flat screen of the laptop sitting amongst the debris of his work, and he watched as his reflection's eyebrows drew together, and he reached out with the cuff of his sweatshirt sleeve and rubbed at the patch of gray, just as a muffled grunt and thump made him pause and lift his head.
Sounds of someone shifting on a sprung mattress, the box springs squealing lowly, bedcovers rustling. The long, steep sigh of someone going back to sleep- or waking up from a bad dream. He decided on the latter when Snake's feet landed on the carpet, and his footsteps took on an unusually heavy and unsteady tread as he padded through the small living room. The engineer craned in his seat to get a good look at the man who lived with him- and caught his breath in his throat, trapping his lower lip between his teeth before his face could crumple in dismay.
Snake looked easily ten years older. A feathering of gray at his temples, normally covered by his beloved bandana, were starkly offset by the dark brunet of the rest of the thick hair. He wondered how he could have missed them, and was aghast that he couldn’t really think of a reason. In the shallow light, the lines of his face seemed chiseled in by a careless workman, deep and lending too much sorrow. When Otacon had turned in his seat, the soldier tossed a look over his bare shoulder, and the dark bags beneath his eyes seemed to swallow any color, the effect rendering his face into a skull. Otacon felt his face twitch at the eerie image, and Snake looked away again, still moving. His movements had taken on a restless, furtive quality, almost hunted. He opened and shut drawers and cabinets with soft snarls at whatever he couldn't find, an occasional curse ripping at the air.
A crumpled pack of cigarettes were hastily snatched from the coffee table, the last of the cancer sticks pulled out and lit without ceremony or relish with the match Snake had procured from the drawer near the sink. The glow of the flame, cradled by one of Snake's knotted and calloused hands (and if Otacon wasn't just seeing things, trembling slightly) gave his eyes a dull glaze. When they finally lifted, after having made sure a good, strong stream of nicotine had been drawn into his bloodstream, Otacon felt for the third time that curious pause, almost like a misstep in his thinking, a stumble.
1000 yard stare. The thought flooded into his brain without beckon.
And, stupidly, all he could do was blink at this man who lived with him. Names spilled into his mouth, but his inability to chose one kept them trapped behind his teeth. So when he finally forced words out of his mouth, they came bare of an attachment.
"Are you okay?" He didn't like how strained his own voice was, the "s"s softened even further by lack of sleep. The acknowledgment of sleep deprivation made his eyes spontaneously feel as if they had been rolled in grit, and he reached up to stick his fingers under his glasses and rub at them.
It took him a couple of seconds to realize that Snake had not responded.
But it wasn't because he hadn't heard, Otacon saw when he extracted his fingers from his face, his glasses falling to bring the soldier into focus. Snake was staring at him rather hard, his mouth having taken on a decidedly granite quality, even as his lips softened to let out a plume of smoke.
"Snake?" He prompted the man, leaning slightly over his chair, the old wood creaking.
The still form didn't answer. Or, not directly. He stepped forward into the tired yellow light of the desk lamp, buried as it was beneath papers, and reached out a hand. It hesitated for a brief second, before settling it on Otacon's shoulder, fingers shifting as if he were getting a good feel of the scientist's skinny frame.
This was surreal. He furrowed his own brows, allowing the silence to stretch on between them. Gradually, Snake's hand lifted, leaving an impression of warmth, to gently touch the skin of Otacon's temple with one finger. The cigarette in the other hand was practicedly tapped, and for once Otacon didn't scold him about the ashes, even as they settled on the hardwood floor. The hand descended, settling on Otacon's collarbones, before sinking again to rest on his sternum.
The look in his eyes was clear enough to give the scientist a blinding flash of insight, usually reserved for obscure code or designs, into the mind of this man.
It wasn't really a conscious thought, Otacon decided. The hand resting on his chest was checking for the beating of his heart, and the finger on his temple had been to check the warmth of his skin, the hand on his shoulder to affirm he had not been-
"Snake, did you have a bad dream?" And with that mundanely phrased sentence, spoken with his usual tone and none of the fuzzy heralds of sleep deprivation, the weird spell that had seemed to fall over the room dissipated.
For Otacon, at least. Snake's gaze had not shortened, and he stared at Otacon with hollow eyes. The raspy grunt he gave might have been an affirmative or a dismissal. He stooped, his cheek inches from Otacon's, the long hair that fell forward smelled of the almost scentless and strange shampoo he always used. The memory of Snake explaining he had always used it in the army and in his FoxHound days sprang up confusedly, wrongly composed, and crumbled. A few beats passed, and Snake straightened, taking in a long, clean breath.
He blinked at Otacon, and then murmured, "You should get some sleep." The gaze fell to the smoldering butt of the cigarette, and Snake bent to meticulously scrape the ash from the floor, pinched the stub off, and deposited it and the ash into a tray. Without another word spared, he shuffled to the couch and dropped onto it. After a few seconds of just sitting, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands dug into his hair.
This was why Hal hated these buildings. (It's not the building, idiot-) Or rather, he hated that no matter how long he lived with Snake, and how well he knew the man, he could never dispell the simplest thing: a dream. The normal routes and tactics used for himself- or the rare others- were useless.
Snake's dreams were full of screams and blood, tracer fire and admissions at the pain of death. And although Otacon knew this on an intellectual level, the awareness that he would never understand left a stab of pain deep in his chest.
After a minute of aborted thoughts and plans of actions, Hal did what he eventually always did. He closed the screen of his laptop, stood from his chair, very careful not to let it scrape on the floor so that the soldier wouldn't jump, gained his land legs after having been sitting in one place for hours, and quietly scuffed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, the feeling of the man in the next room almost palpable, and spat. The dip down alerted him to the smell of recent vomit and Clorox, and he wondered if Snake's sleeping had been troubled all evening, even when Otacon had stepped out to get milk.
He paused in the junction between the living room, the sleeping rooms, and the bathroom, watching the soldier across the expanse of space. He had shifted, just so slightly, so that his hands were laced tightly across the back of his neck instead of twining in his hair, the muscles in his forearms cording and relaxing.
Words hesitated on his mouth, one idea deemed bad just as another tried to push it's way out and was rejected. Finally, he blurted, "Feel better, Snake." The maverick phrase made the other man lift his head, one hand coming down so he could look more fully at Otacon. For his own part, Otacon was privately relieved it had been one of the well-thought out things, instead of, "Even dolphins have bad dreams," which would have required a deal of explaining.
A tiny trail of relief brushed through him when a small, wry smile pulled at the corner of Snake's mouth, eyes looking at him and actually seeing the lank form in the doorway. "Get some sleep," the rough voice chided gently, with enough humor in it to make his statement seem like a guardian worrying over it's charge.
Otacon left the man to fight against his dreams, standing for an almost interminable while, before turning into the dark. Lying in his own bed (on the better of the two mattresses, which Snake had insisted upon), he stared at the ceiling and muttered a few invectives at the building. But, as with every other thing he blamed on it, he knew that it was just because he felt powerless himself to do what he felt he needed to do.
After all, how exactly would you go about trying to hug a seasoned soldier after he's had a bad dream, and still let him keep his dignity?