inspiration is from your first visit to your base, MGS5.
I have played 1-4, Peacewalker and now Phantom Pain, so character impressions are based on whatever I thought of while playing those games.
seriously why is Ocelot now a sexy metro cowboy? smh
if you like this, or this pairing, let me know because I like drawing, giggling, and wasting time on the internet.

"You can close the iDroid now!"

Big Boss started, jerked out of his reverie by the loud and increasingly angry wishes of his companion. He grimaced and closed the app.

"I want to go over the Fulton recovery system."

Big Boss grunted, "I know that one."

"This is different."

"When did you turn into such a nag," he growled, dragging his eyes away from the sleepy sea and turning to the man beside him.

The ocean breeze was playing with his long, silvery blonde hair, tugging it out from behind his ears. Still obnoxiously tall, pale, and handsome, but with new lines around his tilted Eastern eyes. A budding moustache glinted on his upper lip under a long sharp nose. Revolver Ocelot.

The physical, however, was where the similarities ended. Ocelot had changed. To be honest, both of them had changed. For nine years he'd been a pin cushion doll in a hospital ward and this slippery bastard had been up to who knows what. He didn't feel like he really knew anyone anymore.

In the old days, perhaps Big Boss's accusation would have produced a hot headed response, but instead he just received 'the look'. The withering, maddeningly, patient look Ocelot had perfected to make it clear he was accustomed to dealing with idiots.

Big Boss sighed and eased himself back on the rusty rim of his makeshift barrel stool. The waves slapped lazily against the sides of the rig. On all sides the only break in the endless oily roil of blue were white caps or sea birds. A few such sea gulls were lined up on the railing, drowsing in the sun. Their shit decorated the helicopter landing bay like paint splatter.

It should have been peaceful. But it was too similar; it brought back memories of another base in the sea, another base that should have been safe. It kept him on edge like goose pimples that never settled, always reminding him of the reality of his situation. He scanned the sky wistfully, hoping for a glimpse of the approaching chopper. A mission to take him far away from here.

"You'll want to practice knocking soldiers out and attaching the Fulton," Ocelot was saying.

Boss perked up a little at this.

"Not me, Snake."

Disappointing.

"I'll round up a few volunteers."

"Come on, Ocelot," Big Boss made to stop him by reaching for the man's upper arm. "I'm pretty sure I can remember how to -"

Ocelot whirled as if attacked and struck his hand away, eyes furious. "Stop messing around."

There it was again, the peculiar overreaction.

Big Boss felt very much on the wrong foot. "Give me a break, I'm not trying to -"

"I don't have time for games, Snake. We need more men and we need you to get them."

Snake. One of the few people who still called him Snake. Ocelot seemed to manage to load all his resentment into the word, as if he was disappointed that his hero, his idol, had let him down by needing rescuing. There was a conflicting desire in him, to want to be respected by this man, and for the man to be worthy of his past adoration. Take me seriously, Snake.

At the moment, Snake just wanted to hit him.

"I've still got it," he growled irritatedly. "Want to find out?"

Ocelot looked with clear disdain at his newly mechanical arm, "you even used that yet?"

"Yeah? Arm wrestle me!"

There was 'the look' again. Where had the rash, eccentric, show-off gone? When would he whip out the twin pistols? Spin them around his finger? Instead there was nothing, the slight curl of a lip, raised eyes like he'd rather be somewhere else. Perhaps it was true, perhaps in his current state, Snake - the Punished Venom Snake - could no longer hand Ocelot's ass to him. He sulked.

Ocelot was walking away. He still made an impressive figure, despite his flamboyant clothing choices. His pants were ironed to the crease, neatly tucked into knee-high cowboy boots, his favourite spurs jingling with every click of his heel.

Horses. Maybe he could talk about horses without getting his head bitten off. Ocelot surely liked horses: he seemed determined to be mistaken for an extra in a Western. Snake shrugged it off. He wasn't accustomed to thinking too hard about people. If his best friend wanted him here then it was for a good reason. He told himself this, even while pointedly ignoring Miller's strange and vengefully motivated decision making, such as rebuilding an almost replica of 'Outer Haven'.

Ocelot was returning, dogged by two nervous looking recruits in salt-rimed fatigues.

Vaguely remembering his epiphany, the Big Boss ventured, "Riding, eh."

"What."

"Erm." Ocelot's eyebrows were dangerously contracted. "You do a lot of riding or ...? Just into that ... stuff?"

"Stuff?" Ocelot repeated sarcastically.

"Well you didn't - you didn't say anything so I don't know - some people are into that," he mumbled, fast getting out of his depth. He cleared his throat. "CQC?"

They weren't the person he wanted to be slamming to the floor, but they would do.