I think "out of nowhere" pretty much suits this
So, about that fic drought. It lasted for a while. I do have a few things started, but not finished yet - let's hope they move over to the "finished" pile eventually. But I wasn't in the greatest fic-writing spot for the majority of this year plus last winter, as a glance at this LJ could probably show.
Then this happened.
In MGS4, the character of Drebin was among my favourites. I'd never really written about him, though, because his sort of detached-from-everyone quality made giving him a context to explore beyond the whole Patriot thing difficult (and Kojima had already done the one other thing I would have, i.e. gave him some interesting conversations with a twist, particularly in the epilogue).
One recent morning I was like, "Well, to hell with that. I have an image of Snake and Drebin in my head and am gonna put it on monitorpaper." Thus was formed the first - very short, very random, but nevertheless - the first fic I'm posting here this year. I hope it's at least, uh, readable.
(By the way! ACTA has finally bombed itself due to its own universe-splitting awfulness, so I can do away with that protest banner in my index post and go right back to full-on nerding. w00t!)
Title: Man from Nowhere
Characters: Old Snake, Drebin
Rating: SFW
Word Count: ~300
Summary: WAR HAS CHANGED This is a war zone. You don't just stand there contemplating a gun dealer for no reason.
Notes: Takes place during that scene where they first meet, but it's not necessarily chronological as far as the individual components of that meeting go. This whole thing is impressionistic because...because. Enjoy, if you can!
Snake has been watching the man who's emerged from the shadow of the decrepit underground hideout for a while now; he can't help it. Usually, he would feel compelled to anticipate the other's intent, to analyze all those hints barely there-but, disconcertingly, somehow, this stranger's defences seem too impregnable to work past from a disadvantaged outpost like that. Snake can feel his gaze sliding, slipping, his efforts abandoned in favour of something else.
What he finds himself drawn to are the rings and the unsettling shift from the man's suit jacket to the camouflage pants lower down, no doubt symbolic of his calling in some melodramatic way. The ensemble is completed by a knowing smile that seems just a little too kind for an arms dealer. "Gun launderer," the man's voice wafts into Snake's ears, correcting him, setting this situation into a context he'd rather not think about now he's reminded. Thinking could feel so exhausting anyway. Snake's blood has long since been laced with the Patriots' thoughts, and he has no illusions left about-about it helping.
So he shifts his focus to the man's hypnotic movements as those hands conjure up a deep red apple where there had been a grenade first.
EYE HAVE YOU
He knows he shouldn't stare. Snake's eyes trace the contour of the man's-Drebin's, he found out sometime during this encounter-face and hairline, the hair immaculately cropped, brightly incongruous with the gloom. Ridiculous to stare at like this, though; Snake has been places and seen all sorts of people, appearances ranging from nondescript to unforgettable. But there's something about the way Drebin pulls it off, the style and the scar and everything.
Maybe, the next time they meet, Snake might have a suit to put on. Make an impression. That's according to a social code he'd never been at home in but finds himself acquiescing to now, as if for reassurance. As if there's any to go around.
As if-
“I grew up here, too,” Drebin chimes in like he can read him, thoughts and codes and perhaps other things, and for a second Snake can't tell what he means.