(no subject)
DUN DUN DUN, it's the anticlimax ><
Title: All The Patriots' Men, 4/4
Pairings: BB/Ocelot, some BB/Eva
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1400
Warnings: Spoilers (MGS3/4/Portable Ops).
Summary: March 7th, 1973. Frank is becoming more erratic, but the plan is proceeding apace...
PREVIOUS
Frank didn't join him for breakfast. Jack hoped he was enjoying a rare lie-in; for weeks the boy had been up until the small hours poring over tapes, and this was the first time he'd been tardy for their 0700 meal. By 1000 he stopped kidding himself; Frankie hated sleep and he knew it. ("Part alive and part dead," he'd once said. Jack had thought of The Sorrow's river, where he was still sometimes wading in his nightmares, and replied: "You aren't kidding.")
He wasn't worried. It would be a sorry mugger that tried to jump Frank, even unarmed. Deprived of artificially perfect senses, Frank had turned to dilligent training instead - making up for lost speed with increased skill. He couldn't stop bullets with a knife any more, but he'd got damn good at CQC.
He'd spent the morning making phone calls to Campbell and a few other FOXHOUND operatives, and looking over recon photos of an old Philosophers' base in the Caucasus, drawing up infiltration plans. It was the kind of work that made him feel dead - just a pulse fluttering with the anticipation of leading this next mission, looking for a reason to come alive again. He was done by 1300. Frank still wasn't there. Jack drove across the city as he did every day, to the old FOX resupply safehouse which he'd set up as a training area for FOXHOUND. It was in a neighbourhood where no one complained about the muffled sound of gunfire. Frank wasn't there either, so he worked out alone.
He returned at 1700, and considered phoning Adamska. It would be past midnight in Moscow, but he had never yet complained when Jack roused him from his sleep. He could ask him to make that visit - not to celebrate. Just to be together, and maybe figure out what the hell Jack was doing wrong.
He didn't make the call. Instead he checked Frankie's room. The machete was missing, but all the wheels were still turning. He put an ear to the primary receiver and heard Richard Nixon's voice, swearing at his secretary.
*
He did not run to the front door when the handle rattled. Instead he waited in the hallway, listening to the sounds between the raindrops on the terrace - picks tapping against pins, the scraping of a deadbolt being pressured from the wrong direction.
"You need to learn to do that more quietly," he would have said, but one look in Frank's eyes and the words were gone from his lips.
Raindrops ran through Frank's hair, down his long coat, over his steel-capped boots. His black woolen scarf was a sodden pile about his neck. Jack could see the shape of the machete he wore at his belt, and it could have been Null again - Null but with cold lips frozen in no expression, Null but with blood and life in his eyes. Null in a brown trenchcoat, Null with infinitely more awareness of what he was.
"I - I went out this morning, to - to see Ocelot's operatives - and - I was lost," he said. Lost? Lost like Eva? Or lost like me?
It didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter. Jack led Frank inside with a firm hand to the elbow, kicked the door shut and just looked at him. Put his arm around him. Held him against his shoulder, didn't think about the marks of the trail Frank left - the stories in the dirt in the treads of his shoes, the blood-scent amid the rain - If Frank wanted him to know, he would tell him. If not, he just wanted Frank to know it was alright. Even if it wasn't. It didn't matter.
He waited til he thought Frank was crying. Then he waited until he thought Frank had stopped crying. Then he waited a little more. Eventually he pushed the boy back with a tap to the arm, and said, "You go get some dry clothes on. I'll make some more coffee."
He went to the lounge, with a look over his shoulder - Frank was hanging his outdoor clothes on a hook by the door. The trenchcoat had been a gift from Adamska ("You'll need them if you're living on the fucking East Coast"), one each for the two of them, and a third for Adamska himself. They matched. There was something unsettling about that. Jack wore his when he had occasion to do so, which wasn't often.
He boiled water for the coffee press, and lit a cigar.
When Frank came to join him, he was lying flat on his back on the floor, watching smoke rings rise to the ceiling. Frank sat down on the pile of cushions beside him - he was wearing pyjamas, and had a mug held in one hand. It was Frank's mug. From the kitchenette in the back. Still clean and empty, because he'd not been there for breakfast. Jack sat halfway up and lit a second cigar - Frank accepted it, blinking puffy eyes in surprise; on advice from Dr Clark, Jack rarely let the young man smoke. But Dr Clark wasn't here.
Frank poured the coffee in silence, then said, "I'm sorry about today -"
"One day doesn't matter. It's a long mission and -" he was too worn out to fake a smile, "- it's driving me nuts too."
Frank nodded. "I can tell, sometimes. Like when you hang up on Ocelot." Jack coughed, and lay back down. "This isn't the right mission for us, is it?"
"It's not the right mission for me. But I thought you were enjoying it..."
"No." Frank sipped his drink. "But I want to be able to say that I did it. And that's why I'm going to see it through." He grinned. "I want them to spend the rest of the century wondering how. Who 'Deep Throat' really is."
Jack smiled too, finally starting to see the funny side of that nickname. "So what is the right mission for you?" He thought of the plans he'd laid that morning, but of all the abilities he'd been teaching Frank, stealth was still his weakest.
For a full minute, he received no reply. He watched Frank draw on his cigar, attempt a smoke-ring - another skill that required further training - and could almost see words assembling in his head.
"I want to go back to the battlefield. To Africa. If I go back to what I was before they made me sleep -" He paused, drank more coffee. "Maybe if I follow all the memories I have, I'll find some more. Maybe I can piece it all back together. I want to fill in the blank spots..."
Jack's heart trembled. Everything here - Sigint's ingenious distractions, the web of wires that they'd spun over the city, their unvarying daily routine, the endless afternoons in which he'd tried to help Frank unravel the past - was disintegrating under the weight of a few more words. He'd been a fucking fool, mistaking the means for the end. He wasn't here to spend time with Frank, or to sooth his own conscience with affection. He was here to help Frank be the soldier, the man, he'd been born to be.
He couldn't ignore Frank's will, or his need to move on, move deeper. Frank wasn't his pawn. He didn't want FOXHOUND to work like that - he wanted his soldiers to fight for what they believed in. "If that's what you want, then when this is all over I'm going to find us a battlefield. Either it'll bring us both back to life, or it'll kill us, and..."
Frank smiled, like a boy who had never had anything to lose.
*
"Snake."
"Ocelot. This is Gray Fox speaking."
"Fox? It's good to hear from you. Is Snake perhaps indisposed?"
"He's preparing to join his men in Europe. I will be overseeing the operation until the end of March."
"Excellent. I shall provide you with whatever further contacts that you need."
"Is the puppet ready?"
"Yes. Sigint has a contact who will make it clear to the administration that Number Three is their only option."
"In that case, Two's days are...numbered."
"As are One's."
"Yes. His number is barely larger."
Laughter. "I am very glad you're working for us, Fox. You are our strong right hand."
"So says Snake. It is a loyalty that will never be severed."
"Indeed - and Snake learned of loyalty from a great patriot." Pause. "What can we expect to happen in the coming days?"
"I've...persuaded...one of your burglars to claim that Number One was directing his activities. We're preparing all the evidence the prosecutors will need."
"I commend you. Good night, Fox."
"Good night."
EXIT
Title: All The Patriots' Men, 4/4
Pairings: BB/Ocelot, some BB/Eva
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1400
Warnings: Spoilers (MGS3/4/Portable Ops).
Summary: March 7th, 1973. Frank is becoming more erratic, but the plan is proceeding apace...
PREVIOUS
Frank didn't join him for breakfast. Jack hoped he was enjoying a rare lie-in; for weeks the boy had been up until the small hours poring over tapes, and this was the first time he'd been tardy for their 0700 meal. By 1000 he stopped kidding himself; Frankie hated sleep and he knew it. ("Part alive and part dead," he'd once said. Jack had thought of The Sorrow's river, where he was still sometimes wading in his nightmares, and replied: "You aren't kidding.")
He wasn't worried. It would be a sorry mugger that tried to jump Frank, even unarmed. Deprived of artificially perfect senses, Frank had turned to dilligent training instead - making up for lost speed with increased skill. He couldn't stop bullets with a knife any more, but he'd got damn good at CQC.
He'd spent the morning making phone calls to Campbell and a few other FOXHOUND operatives, and looking over recon photos of an old Philosophers' base in the Caucasus, drawing up infiltration plans. It was the kind of work that made him feel dead - just a pulse fluttering with the anticipation of leading this next mission, looking for a reason to come alive again. He was done by 1300. Frank still wasn't there. Jack drove across the city as he did every day, to the old FOX resupply safehouse which he'd set up as a training area for FOXHOUND. It was in a neighbourhood where no one complained about the muffled sound of gunfire. Frank wasn't there either, so he worked out alone.
He returned at 1700, and considered phoning Adamska. It would be past midnight in Moscow, but he had never yet complained when Jack roused him from his sleep. He could ask him to make that visit - not to celebrate. Just to be together, and maybe figure out what the hell Jack was doing wrong.
He didn't make the call. Instead he checked Frankie's room. The machete was missing, but all the wheels were still turning. He put an ear to the primary receiver and heard Richard Nixon's voice, swearing at his secretary.
*
He did not run to the front door when the handle rattled. Instead he waited in the hallway, listening to the sounds between the raindrops on the terrace - picks tapping against pins, the scraping of a deadbolt being pressured from the wrong direction.
"You need to learn to do that more quietly," he would have said, but one look in Frank's eyes and the words were gone from his lips.
Raindrops ran through Frank's hair, down his long coat, over his steel-capped boots. His black woolen scarf was a sodden pile about his neck. Jack could see the shape of the machete he wore at his belt, and it could have been Null again - Null but with cold lips frozen in no expression, Null but with blood and life in his eyes. Null in a brown trenchcoat, Null with infinitely more awareness of what he was.
"I - I went out this morning, to - to see Ocelot's operatives - and - I was lost," he said. Lost? Lost like Eva? Or lost like me?
It didn't matter. It didn't fucking matter. Jack led Frank inside with a firm hand to the elbow, kicked the door shut and just looked at him. Put his arm around him. Held him against his shoulder, didn't think about the marks of the trail Frank left - the stories in the dirt in the treads of his shoes, the blood-scent amid the rain - If Frank wanted him to know, he would tell him. If not, he just wanted Frank to know it was alright. Even if it wasn't. It didn't matter.
He waited til he thought Frank was crying. Then he waited until he thought Frank had stopped crying. Then he waited a little more. Eventually he pushed the boy back with a tap to the arm, and said, "You go get some dry clothes on. I'll make some more coffee."
He went to the lounge, with a look over his shoulder - Frank was hanging his outdoor clothes on a hook by the door. The trenchcoat had been a gift from Adamska ("You'll need them if you're living on the fucking East Coast"), one each for the two of them, and a third for Adamska himself. They matched. There was something unsettling about that. Jack wore his when he had occasion to do so, which wasn't often.
He boiled water for the coffee press, and lit a cigar.
When Frank came to join him, he was lying flat on his back on the floor, watching smoke rings rise to the ceiling. Frank sat down on the pile of cushions beside him - he was wearing pyjamas, and had a mug held in one hand. It was Frank's mug. From the kitchenette in the back. Still clean and empty, because he'd not been there for breakfast. Jack sat halfway up and lit a second cigar - Frank accepted it, blinking puffy eyes in surprise; on advice from Dr Clark, Jack rarely let the young man smoke. But Dr Clark wasn't here.
Frank poured the coffee in silence, then said, "I'm sorry about today -"
"One day doesn't matter. It's a long mission and -" he was too worn out to fake a smile, "- it's driving me nuts too."
Frank nodded. "I can tell, sometimes. Like when you hang up on Ocelot." Jack coughed, and lay back down. "This isn't the right mission for us, is it?"
"It's not the right mission for me. But I thought you were enjoying it..."
"No." Frank sipped his drink. "But I want to be able to say that I did it. And that's why I'm going to see it through." He grinned. "I want them to spend the rest of the century wondering how. Who 'Deep Throat' really is."
Jack smiled too, finally starting to see the funny side of that nickname. "So what is the right mission for you?" He thought of the plans he'd laid that morning, but of all the abilities he'd been teaching Frank, stealth was still his weakest.
For a full minute, he received no reply. He watched Frank draw on his cigar, attempt a smoke-ring - another skill that required further training - and could almost see words assembling in his head.
"I want to go back to the battlefield. To Africa. If I go back to what I was before they made me sleep -" He paused, drank more coffee. "Maybe if I follow all the memories I have, I'll find some more. Maybe I can piece it all back together. I want to fill in the blank spots..."
Jack's heart trembled. Everything here - Sigint's ingenious distractions, the web of wires that they'd spun over the city, their unvarying daily routine, the endless afternoons in which he'd tried to help Frank unravel the past - was disintegrating under the weight of a few more words. He'd been a fucking fool, mistaking the means for the end. He wasn't here to spend time with Frank, or to sooth his own conscience with affection. He was here to help Frank be the soldier, the man, he'd been born to be.
He couldn't ignore Frank's will, or his need to move on, move deeper. Frank wasn't his pawn. He didn't want FOXHOUND to work like that - he wanted his soldiers to fight for what they believed in. "If that's what you want, then when this is all over I'm going to find us a battlefield. Either it'll bring us both back to life, or it'll kill us, and..."
Frank smiled, like a boy who had never had anything to lose.
*
"Snake."
"Ocelot. This is Gray Fox speaking."
"Fox? It's good to hear from you. Is Snake perhaps indisposed?"
"He's preparing to join his men in Europe. I will be overseeing the operation until the end of March."
"Excellent. I shall provide you with whatever further contacts that you need."
"Is the puppet ready?"
"Yes. Sigint has a contact who will make it clear to the administration that Number Three is their only option."
"In that case, Two's days are...numbered."
"As are One's."
"Yes. His number is barely larger."
Laughter. "I am very glad you're working for us, Fox. You are our strong right hand."
"So says Snake. It is a loyalty that will never be severed."
"Indeed - and Snake learned of loyalty from a great patriot." Pause. "What can we expect to happen in the coming days?"
"I've...persuaded...one of your burglars to claim that Number One was directing his activities. We're preparing all the evidence the prosecutors will need."
"I commend you. Good night, Fox."
"Good night."
EXIT