By: Caz
Rating: PG
Summary: Chapter one: Sensory Stimuli.
Notes: Writing this made me hungry. Seriously! And ha, Snake smokes cheap cigarettes. Anyway, it's really short for a first chapter but I liked it enough, so I decided to post. It's the first MGS fic I've posted, so rip me a new one if necessary. Was inspired by Lycia's "From Foam" and "Chalkboard James" by Allison's Halo. Great instrumentals; check 'em out. Okay, enough from me... oh, and anyone that understands the title gets a cookie. ;D And thank you to Em (kinneas) for the encouragement of my odd habits. And fanfiction.net feels the need to BUTCHER my formatting… let's try uploading this again…
Hello Darkness, my old friend…
The Robert Frost line pervaded his mind without his permission as Hal Emmerich gazed out over the crystal-clear Manhattan skyline, green eyes reflecting light of a thousand headlights and streetlamps. He sat upon the window's sill, using its frame as a guide for his position… the effect it would've given to an observer was that the cold architecture of the tenement was somehow cradling him.
His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose again, but he possessed neither the drive nor the energy to bother returning them to their rightful perch. Instead, he rather enjoyed the blur of nighttime silhouette as it contrasted the sharpness of the apartment's interior.
The majority of feeling left in his tired consciousness was lackluster, doleful. But it wasn't due to depression; no, not anymore. Truth be told, he was simply… worn. Stretched too thin for his frail mental resources to possibly cover. Arsenal Gear had been effectively decommissioned; Solidus was dead. Although his name hadn't been cleared and all of his questions hadn't been answered, the mission was largely a success.
He was drained.
It had all happened so fast… he'd had hardly any time to rest throughout the events of the last few months, let alone any time to reflect. Since early May, he'd known that the Patriots would look for them, especially for Snake... but they'd somehow avoided detection. They'd moved twice since then, each time downgrading (although he wasn't sure exactly how you could downgrade from a one-bedroom, one-bathroom flat that was surreptitiously missing a large chunk of the main hallway's sheet rock), and they'd had to live entirely off the grid. No telephone, no bank account, no taxes, no more trysts with the United Nations. Perhaps their constant risk of being detected was the source of the feelings of oppression that had locked around him in so tight a bubble. He didn't even know.
Ever since he'd realized—it had felt like the moment a bullet penetrated the skin; a single instant where your eyes opened wide and you took in a single, short gasp before your skin turned to pins and needles—that it was, in fact, over… he'd felt detached from reality. And walking the world as though it was a dream wasn't something he enjoyed. He wanted to actually be able to feel the wall as he put his hand against it rather than think, distantly, "Hey… this wall has a texture."
But he knew there wasn't any way to speed up the process. He was stunned… and the only cure for that was time. Yet every time he convinced himself of that, he was reminded: You've had time. It's been six months! In case you haven't forgotten, that's half a year. How much time do you need?
As for Philanthropy's second member… he seemed to be doing fine. In fact, it was rather odd, the differences between "Snake" and "David." As soon as the danger was over, the man just switched personas. Not that Hal minded… in fact, it was rather comforting to know that there even was another side to the laconic, hostile Solid Snake. But the two halves' differences were startling, nonetheless. Snake could move through any crowd, unseen and unheard… David's footfalls were lazy and heavy; you could tell he was home just by listening for the sound of rummaging. Snake was the epitome of strict when it came to his conduct or anyone else's; David chuckled all the time and tripped over loose items. A lot.
That thought, if nothing else, brought a smile to Hal's lips.
It was that tendency toward clumsiness that led him to be surprised when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, causing him to yelp a bit and whirl around. I guess he can still pull a stealth move every once in a while, after all... he thought as he sighed, relieved.
Snake—no, his brain reminded him, Dave—stood before him with a rather perplexed expression that didn't match his slouching posture. The ex-mercenary slumped into a nearby armchair and gazed up at the engineer as he spoke:
"Is it really that interesting?"
It? Hal blinked, not understanding.
"The city. You've been sitting there, staring at it for hours. I've only walked by you twice in that time... but you don't seem to have moved at all."
It was an honest observation. The bespectacled man shrugged at the accusation, not having any fuel or reason to deny it. Instead, he offered an explanation.
"I've just been thinking. Sorry I've been so... distant. You probably don't even remember what it's like to have to unwind... but I'm just," he sighed, "I'm stressed. Or... I was. Either way..."
His companion nodded sympathetically, though he wasn't exactly vocal on the subject. That was another part of "coming down," or re-conditioning yourself to normal life after combat or even the survival of a horrific event: learning to speak again. On the battlefield, words were clipped and truncated so that they offered as little distraction as possible. Codes and jargon were everywhere... after prolonged exposure, Hal guessed, one would probably forget any sort of colloquial manner of speaking entirely. And then they'd have to learn normal inflection... to lose that tone of warlike urgency...
"You home?"
Hal glanced up, not realizing that he'd effectively buried himself in his own over-analysis once again.
"Yeah. Just..." he thought for a moment, "sorry. Forgot what I was going to say."
David nodded, knowing too well what that felt like. It was rather common between the two of them and their sometimes-faulty trains of thought. We must really be getting old... he thought.
"Anyway... I'm gonna go pick up some Chinese from down the street. Just checking to see if you wanted anything." Dave felt like adding a comment about the fact that he hadn't seen Hal sit down to eat a full meal since that April, but declined it. For some reason, Hal's physical health was a rather touchy subject. Especially when it came to "not taking care of himself," which the scientist used as an opportunity to snap back at him about all of his own bad habits, smoking and drinking being the two most obvious. Then there would be a debate about whether he ate too much fried food, whether or not his cholesterol was higher than the Chrysler Building...
It was best to just let that subject slip by.
"No, I'm okay. Thanks, though."
The reply was exactly what he'd expected, not even the slightest bit shocking. But due to the tact that he so infrequently equipped, he felt it was good to ask just the same. As he turned to leave, he heard the sound of rustling clothing followed by a light thud as Hal hit the hardwood floor and approached him from behind.
"You know, on second thought... I'll come with you. I've been cooped up for far too long... maybe the best thing to do to walk this off, so to speak, is to take it head on."
He smiled, genuinely hopeful, and Dave smirked in response. That line wouldn't have been possible a few years ago... not with the scatterbrained, hapless, nervous man he'd been introduced to on Shadow Moses Island. He'd really grown a lot since then. For the better. Then again... they both had.
After a moment had been reserved for them to gather the necessities—wallets, coats, and (although it as protested) a pack of Pall Malls—they marched down the stairwell and out into the New York night, with hungry stomachs and triumphant grins.
Already, Hal felt the dense, indescribable fog lifting from his shoulders as they walked side-by-side toward Little Orient, the Chinese bistro that occupied a corner a few blocks down from their humble home. He felt like he hadn't seen the world in years... every light that flickered from right before his eyes to far-off in the distance caught his attention. He felt like a child walking through a park to look at Christmas lights, tightly gripping the hand of a parent or grandparent as he took in the sights like only the most sense-ravenous individuals could. The street smelled wonderful; a dozen tiny restaurants lined it as far down as he could see, next to small antique shops or photo labs or pet grooming services or what-have-you. And not only that, but the temperature was just right... slightly cool, due to the fact that it was autumn, but nothing he couldn't bear. And the wind that blew, rather than chilling him, was invigorating.
"Wow... it's beautiful out here," he said in an awed, childlike voice.
There wasn't any reply from the one walking beside him, only a glance and a small, unreadable smile. Hal continued rambling on, commenting on the fact that he just swore the air was cleaner than it had been in months and how he just couldn't believe that it was this close to Christmas and that this time, he was actually excited for the holidays rather than dreary and bothersome like he usually was...
"What?" he asked abruptly, hands on his hips, "why are you just staring like that?"
Dave didn't reply, instead choosing to shove his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his jacket and quicken his pace toward their destination. This only perturbed Hal further; like any other sensible individual would, he pursued the matter further, peering inquisitively at the other man with a disgruntled expression. The action, of course, only brought forth rumbling laughter from his companion, who shook his head. His eyes held a devilish twinkle in the corner: the satisfaction of "I-know-something-you-don't-know."
"I really would like some answers here," he said, exasperated. He was interrupted.
"It's nothing in particular. You're just... you're smiling. I can't remember the last time I saw you smile. It's cute."
Although he tried to prevent it, a light blush crept into Hal's cheeks at the statement. Cute!? Of all the most emasculating adjectives in the English language... and before he could react, the taller man had leaned forward and pressed the tiniest of kisses to his cheek. The pinkish hue of his face deepened to a decidedly apple red. He opened his mouth to say something, though he hadn't yet thought of what, but David was hurrying onward, grinning and calling over his shoulder:
"Come on! I'm starving!"
And he had no choice but to hurry after, bewildered.