Title: Cause to Fight
Author: Aqua Phoenix1
Disclaimer:Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater and all its characters and story do not belong to me. That honour goes to Hideo Kojima and Konami. I do own Vadim and Aleksei though.
Rating: This instalment is worthy of a K+ rating because of my dirty mind. (Nothing bad but it is shounen-ai, after all.)
Pairing: Snake/Ocelot (mostly)
A/N: Just wanted to say that I stole TheDonutMistress' description of Ocelot. "Juggling clown" does him much justice, methinks. I wanted to give credit where it was due, and if you're still reading this thanks for the phrase. If it really bugs you, I have no problems with removing it. And how's this for obsession: I've recently taken up juggling myself. I still need practice. Well frankly, I'm rubbish. Can sort of juggle three but I can tell you right now, it's as hard as it looks.
And finally, the chapter title is purposely misquoted -- to tie in with Snake's food.
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Chapter
III
Just Desserts
"…You
ate my food?"
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Not for the first time he can taste blood in his mouth, a violent flavour that the running water of the stream does little to soothe. A group of youths are pointing, laughing, and they're jangling his pendent just out of reach. 'Here, pussy pussy!' one of them coos, and the victim knows he should leave it be but it's his only connection to his past -- he can feel the white hot anger building up inside. The teens above him are merely a handful of years older but when you're on the threshold of adulthood every year counts; they're much bigger than he is. The leader, a lean child whose name eludes the trembling boy, is wearing a quickly diminishing expression of glee as he notices his taunts aren't working as well as they normally do. 'Can pussies play fetch too? Let's see. Fetch, kid!' the teen commands, tossing the pendent into the fast-flowing river. "Son of a bitch!" the younger screams inwardly at the unfairness of it all. Initial fear overcome by desperation, the cat leaps into the water…
Legs pounding, he couldn't remember the last time he'd ran this fast. There was usually no need to, Ocelot being as naturally swift as he was -- he usually ducked and weaved, evading enemy fire with ease -- but not today. Today he'd been hit and the only thing he could do now was remove the bullet. The urgency was new, too. A ways behind him, Aleksei was thundering through the undergrowth in an attempt to keep up with the faster man, serving as a reminder that this was definitely happening.
Groznyj Grad had gone into lockdown as it always did during the nights. Everything was shut up with the exception of a small entrance off to the side of the main gates and it was there that Ocelot sped, shoving his way past some ignorant sentry who was trying to confirm his ID. Behind him, he heard Aleksei attempt to explain his major's behaviour.
The complex was veiled in thick darkness with the only significant source of light coming from spotlights continually scanning the grounds for unwelcomed guests. Any other person would have slowed down to safely navigate their way through the sea of crates, vehicles and storage facilities situated in irrational places. Racing across the complex, Ocelot's booted foot caught on one of these boxes. He went careening through the air, ending up in a tangled heap of legs and arms. At any other time, Ocelot would've cursed the thing but instead he just picked himself up and kept running. But he did wonder dimly how many people he'd have to shoot after they'd witnessed the mishap.
He was still all-out sprinting when he burst into the jail, the stench instantly invading his nose. Three things immediately demanded his attention: first there was Vadim and one of his cronies standing off to the side, the latter looking somewhat sour. Next, Colonel Volgin who was gracing him with a disgusted glare. And then Snake, who was bound and gagged, a slick coat of sweat covering his face at the effort it took him to just stand there. Ocelot's eyes flicked from one to the other, then came to rest on Volgin as the colonel said, indicating the unnamed soldier, 'He was found interrogating the prisoner. "Interrogating" being his word, of course.' He spared the Ocelot soldier a withering glance, then focussed on Ocelot himself. 'I told you no one was to see him!'
The blonde's little jaunt was beginning to have an impact on him; his heart was drumming at his chest much to fast. Trying to control his breathing, Ocelot began a well-rehearsed apology, 'Colonel, I never--'
'Don't you make excuses! I've listened to enough of your falsities!'
Ocelot clenched his teeth but thought it wise to stay silent. He couldn't jeopardise his mission on account of his personal quest for vengeance and Volgin didn't need any more provoking. Ocelot was rash but he was learning.
Volgin fixed his subordinate with a dominating glare, 'I'm sick of calling for my most elite soldiers and receiving a juggling clown instead. I'm sick of your attitude, carrying on like a spoilt little kid. I'm sick of you, Ocelot!'
Said soldier remained silent. Volgin stepped towards him, towering over the smaller man, and brought his face down so he could stare Ocelot in the eyes. The cat averted his gaze. A sadistic grin crawled onto Volgin's face at that. It was all Ocelot could do to will his body not to flinch from this encroachment of his personal space.
The next words were soft, spoken for Ocelot's ears alone, 'And you know what, Vanya? Time and time again, I've stood by and watched your miserable failures. Even though I took you under my wing, you still continue to embarrass me. Both with your failure as a soldier and as a man.'
Glaring at a patch of dirt he'd isolated on Volgin's uniform, Ocelot felt his lips curling back in a rictus of a snarl; he wanted nothing more than to kill Volgin right then. However, the Philosopher's Legacy was too important to risk. Remembering his true objective, Ocelot forced his hand to drop from the grip of the revolver it had crept to.
Straightening, Volgin now spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, 'And now this, this outright disobedience! Major, you're dismissed!'
'…' For once, Ocelot was stunned beyond words.
'Vadim, I'm promoting you as new Major Ocelot. Do whatever you see fit with him,' he indicated the nameless soldier with a toss of his head. Then his gaze fell on the injured Snake, who before had seemed to momentarily escape his notice. 'Dog!' he spat before brushing past the ex-major.
'Colonel!' Ocelot found the words spring from his mouth before he could stop them. Already halfway there he decided the only thing to do now was continue on with what he wanted to say. Turning to face Volgin, he stated, 'You should let the medics tend to him. He's no use to you dead.' The blonde strove to keep his breathing steady against a body that was crying out for more life-giving oxygen.
A pause. Then Volgin spun to backhand the youth, sending jolts of electricity through his body. Ocelot took the punishment wordlessly, knowing there would be a bruise there tomorrow morning, not venturing to turn his face back to the behemoth of a man in front of him. From his place against the wall, Vadim snorted his amusement, 'You think Colonel Volgin cares what happens to the American?' He stopped, considering, then said, 'I'll tell you what I know you're not cut out for Spetsnaz; in fact, you can barely hold your own in a fire fight. And because I don't like seeing boys die needlessly I think some time spent in Med will suit you.' Vadim's lips rearranged into a cruel smile as he added, 'And you can take your pet American with you.'
As if on cue, Snake uttered a pained groan, drawing the attention of the room's other occupants as he staggered then fell. Swift as ever, Ocelot sprung to steady him, one hand against the man's bare chest while the other wrapped around his back. Snake's bloodied head slumped against the slightly taller man's shoulder. He smelt of cigarettes and sweat and cinnamon.
Volgin laughed. 'A pathetic fate for a pathetic boy,' he sounded satisfied as he left the room. Ocelot silently cursed Snake, the only man he'd ever met with the ability to catch him off guard whether it was by giving him pointers on what weapon he was best suited to or collapsing on top of him. Or, to be more accurate, collapsing from the extreme bodily harm inflicted upon him within a short span of time, inducing Ocelot to rush to save him from a nasty fall that could have given him severe concussion or even brain damage. Whatever.
'You heard, comrade,' now that Volgin was gone, Vadim's words were dripping with venom. 'Off to the med ward with you. Here,' he chucked Snake's backpack at Ocelot, who fought to keep it off the ground. 'Don't want to go wasting our own supplies on him. Oh, and I'll be expecting those stripes of yours -- I mean, mine -- to be off your uniform before the sun rises tomorrow. Yes?'
Ocelot fixed Vadim with a glare that promised rebellion but knew there was nothing to be done.
'That's an order!'
Struggling to sling Snake and the backpack around his shoulders, this time Ocelot managed a short nod. It startled him when he realised Aleksei was trying to assist him in his task; he hadn't heard his friend slip in. 'We will, sir,' the dark-headed one offered with what Ocelot could tell was barely concealed anger. Perhaps he pushed Aleksei's hands away a bit too vehemently because the look he received was a hurt one. 'It's fine,' Ocelot told him in what he hoped was a softer tone than his actions had implied. With rigid determination, he mustered what dignity he had left and vacated the room walking tall (or as tall as his burden would allow him).
Lugging Snake all the way to Med proved quite a chore even though, to ensure efficiency, the ward was situated nearby. It was quiet outside, the only ones disturbing Ocelot and his protégé being occasional sentries who did a good job of remaining invisible most of the time. Ocelot was glad for the cover of darkness night had brought: he didn't have to see Snake's singular eye turned on him and for the most part the darkness concealed the man hanging off of him, so he wasn't constantly reminded of what he was doing. For all he knew he could've been carrying around a sack of dead tree frogs.
Suddenly panicked at that thought, Ocelot stopped to listen for the sound of Snake's breathing. It came at short, erratic intervals but at least it was there. Using his free arm, the Russian removed the gag from Snake's mouth to allow him to breathe easier. He wiped the perspiration from his eyes. He really shouldn't have felt so relieved. But he did.
He waved the solitary soldier guarding the med ward away, impatient. Kicking open the door (actually, it was more of a dismal flailing of legs -- not at all like those ones you saw the hero of a movie deliver), Ocelot allowed Snake to slide onto the nearest empty bed. The medics had all retired for the day, leaving the place spotless and stinking of disinfectant. Ocelot wrinkled his nose in disgust. With no doctors around, the blonde was forced to administer what he could to his patient himself. On the upside, with the exception of one man who'd toppled into the swamp and been mauled by a gavial for his troubles, there weren't any other inmates around.
Snake was too good for that.
Ocelot dusted off his uniform before unbuttoning the bag and beginning his search for bandages and the like. Snake's backpack was overflowing with useless odds and ends: a folded up cardboard box, a mask with a disturbing resemblance to Raikov (Ocelot chucked it carelessly aside), the fetid remains of something he didn't care to name, a small mousetrap (Ocelot eyed that one suspiciously, wondering why it looked familiar)… The lack of order irritated him to the point where he just inverted the stupid thing, letting its contents spill onto the too-clean floor where he could easily sift through the lot. His slender hands quickly sorted the items into various piles. When they found a questionable magazine, Ocelot hastily shoved it in whatever group happened to be closest, blushing furiously.
The last edible item was a weird-looking mushroom. Ocelot stared at it bemusedly, wondering how Snake managed to live off such matter. His interest piqued, he sniffed at the fungus. A slightly musty odour reached his nose. Deciding that if Snake ate it, it couldn't be too bad (hell, consuming whatever the American did would probably do him the world of good), Ocelot took a bite. Immediately, the most repulsive flavour his tastebuds had ever had the misfortune of stumbling across filled his mouth.
'Son of a--! Ugh!'
Whatever it was, he didn't hesitate in spitting it out. Furiously wiping the mess off his tongue with one hand, Ocelot desperately began searching for something else that would wash away the taste with the other. Finding no water amongst the miscellaneous objects, he all but ran to the nearest sink, turned the tap and twisted his head to drink. Even after rinsing his mouth out multiple times a horribly bitter aftertaste remained. As if making him baby-sit Snake wasn't insulting enough, he just had to go and make it worse himself. Moron.
The Russian turned to regard Snake, who was still lying on the bed in an innocent manner, and silently blamed him for the entire episode. At least now that he'd injected some organisation into the man's belongings he could clearly see what he had to work with. Styptic, ointment, a couple of suture kits, disinfectant (Ocelot breathed through his mouth), some random pills… he had enough to start his own clinic.
Running his eyes over Snake, he quickly assessed the extent of his injuries. Numerous cuts, some of them deeper then others, that were still bleeding profusely explained the FOX commando's dizzy spell. Other wounds, ones that had only begun scabbing, had broken open either due to his rough treatment from Volgin or Vadim, or maybe Ocelot himself. Areas of Snake's body were covered in burn marks and tender-looking bruises, a particularly large one located on his chest just below where his heart was. That must've been thanks to an especially powerful punch from Volgin. Then there was the pair of gunshot wounds Ocelot had given him earlier, one to the leg, the other taking out his eye. Ocelot couldn't help but feel a twang of guilt when he noticed Snake hadn't received any treatment for that, either.
And finally, two of the digits on Snake's right hand were bent at awkward angles. Ocelot gained a small degree of relief when it occurred to him that the other wouldn't be firing a gun anytime soon. He doubted that would hinder the guy, though.
Ocelot watched Snake's chest rise and fall a few seconds longer. He could just let him die. But then there were those things he'd been considering before, the matters regarding his honour and pride. And then…
"That's an order!"
The navy bandanna Snake had tied around the wounded leg was darkened with bloodstains. Ocelot carefully removed it.
'What're you up to…?' Snake groaned, obviously wanting as little to do with Ocelot as possible.
'Take off your pants,' Ocelot commanded.
'Ta--What?'
Ocelot allowed an exasperated sigh. He hated repeating himself at the best of times. 'I said, take off your pants.'
'You first,' Snake growled.
Heat rising in his cheeks -- whether from indignation or not he didn't want to consider -- Ocelot made a sound of frustration and directed his piercing gaze at the American, 'You really want me to leave that bullet in there? Because I will, if you push me.' He hoped Snake believed him.
He obviously did because he managed to right himself and begin undressing. Ocelot busied himself trying to thread the needle to stitch up some of the lacerations, wondering how he could possibly carry out his mission now that he wasn't even cleared to enter a toilet cubicle unaccompanied.
'…Wouldn't have picked you as the nurturing type,' Snake commented.
Ocelot hissed as he jabbed himself with the needle, 'Shut up.'
Snake obliged for a time but after several more unsuccessful attempts he spoke again, 'You're trying too hard. Here,' he held out his hand for the items.
Ocelot considered it, then decided it was better than kneeling there all night while Snake watched him make an ass of himself. Besides, at this point his pride appeared to be sitting at the bottom of a garbage bin along with his dignity. He held the needle and thread above Snake's open palm for a moment of glorious defiance, then dropped them. Snake blessed him with a small nod of acknowledgement. Ocelot couldn't help but smirk when he saw the other had tactfully left his undergarments on. Modesty from a trained killer?
Face taut with concentration at the task at hand, the brunette still managed to get in a couple of blows, 'You're too impatient for this stuff. Definitely not cut out for medicine. Makes you angry just hearing me say that, doesn't it?'
Ocelot blinked, startled by the man's perception.
'And your gloves inhibit you. They eliminate contact with your skin, making it difficult for you to feel what you have to do. There!' He passed it back to Ocelot, who was rather disgruntled at the critique. Snake's observations seemed to always centre on insulting Ocelot's talents, something the youth had dealt with for much of his life with a passiveness that came from being powerless to stop it. Snake was different though: true, his criticisms hurt no less, but Ocelot found himself considering them, thinking about what he could do to correct whatever it was the man pointed out. Hence his newest acquisition: a trio of SAAs that were never far away from him.
Yes, there was definitely something about this FOX operative that unsettled Ocelot. For one, he never seemed to lose his temper, a feat which Ocelot could never seem to fully accomplish. While he wasn't exactly kind, his presence wasn't unbearable; on the contrary, Ocelot found himself enjoying the older man's insight, even if it did come at the expense of his own ego. Strangest of all was that Snake had the uncanny ability to read into his thoughts. Ocelot may have been viciously defensive and even hot-headed to a degree but he certainly knew how to mask his feelings when he needed to -- wouldn't be much of a spy if he couldn't -- but Snake seemed to see right through him. The Russian disliked what he was feeling, a sort of anxiousness coming from the pit of his stomach, squirming its way to his chest where it played tricks on his heart. It was easier just hating him, but… he couldn't. Not when he embodied the state Ocelot's physical, perhaps even mental, health had been like on a number of occasions. Not when he wanted to thank him properly for what he had given him. Not when he looked so real.
It was harder when you knew the enemy.
"What if he can read my mind…?" he wondered before chastising himself with the sarcasm of, "Well, why don't you ask him? Though he's probably too busy trying to stop bleeding everywhere."
'You gonna stitch me up now, or what?' Snake questioned when Ocelot remained blank for a bit too long.
"…Weird."
'You're lucky I'm even doing this,' he warned, 'but you're not as lucky as me.' He then found himself taunting Snake, 'Besides, if you can thread the thing, why not do it yourself?'
'For starters, I can't reach the back of my leg,' Snake supplied dryly, making Ocelot curse his own idiocy. 'I'm not some kind of contortionist like that Spider you sent me. Freak…' The Spetsnaz soldier was pretty sure Snake hadn't meant that last part to be audible: he spoke them into the pillow he'd turned to bury his face in. But Ocelot had no love for the Cobras and despite himself he felt the corner of his lips quirk at the comment. He brutally scrubbed it from his face.
'You'd show your back to me?' he asked instead.
'You're not allowed to kill me; I heard that much. Besides, you're too honourable for that kind of play,' the praise seemed to come easily, with no hesitation. Just like that other time when Snake told him he was FOX material.
For a prisoner of war, the American was quite the conversationalist.
So was his stomach. It grumbled loudly just as Ocelot was about to disinfect the bullet wound. Raising an eyebrow, he dug around in his own pockets until he came up with a ration -- he made a point to keep one on him at all times; one never knew when the next battle would begin. 'Here,' with a flick of his wrist, he deposited the package beside Snake's head, who turned to stare at it suspiciously.
An exasperated sigh, 'Just eat the damn thing.'
Surprisingly, Snake obeyed, shuffling into a sitting position before opening the packet as if afraid it was rigged with C3. Ocelot watched him carefully, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. As Snake placed a piece in his mouth, his face froze entirely. It looked like an effort to chew and swallow the stuff. 'This is so horrible!' he exclaimed to no one in particular.
'Not as bad as whatever it is that's making that rotten stink in your backpack.'
'…You ate my food?'
Ocelot forced the blush from his face, 'Not exactly…'
Snake glanced at the neat little groups his belongings had organised themselves into. '…The Siberian Ink Cap,' he said knowingly, 'is possibly the worst thing I've tasted.' Chewing thoughtfully, he added, 'But these rations come a close second.'
Again, Ocelot was stunned into "blink-like-a-dumb-blonde" mode. The man knew what he'd eaten. It was kinda admirable, someone so in-tune to their environment. But it was downright creepy on so many levels.
Gesturing wildly at the remains of the mushroom, Ocelot grumbled, 'The first thing you can do after I've shot your other leg is remove this… food.' He supposed he would've sounded more dangerous if he'd been able to stop the nauseous feeling that rose in his stomach just by thinking about eating the damn thing.
'Curiosity killed the cat,' Snake quipped.
At a loss for a retort, Ocelot consoled himself in the fact that at least Snake didn't ask why he'd decided to chow down on his so-called food. Somehow, "I wanted to eat what you eat" sounded a little too stalker-ish. And not to mention completely untrue, Ocelot berated himself. One week and with any luck Vadim would let him rejoin the unit -- he hated admitting that he needed the other's permission to do so -- and Snake would be fit enough to kill.
'Well Major, looks like we're stuck with each other for the week,' Snake mused.
'…Don't know how I'm going to survive…' Ocelot murmered, keeping a wary eye on the other. Even if Snake heard, Ocelot doubted he'd understand exactly what he meant. Eyebrows coming together in a V as he recalled his demotion, he added, 'And don't call me Major.' He glanced at the set of impressive stripes below his breast pocket. His whole uniform was smeared with Snake's blood; Ocelot frowned then absently began removing his coat, placing it neatly on the end of the bed.
'Geez, kid, make up your mind. First you shoot out my leg because I don't call you Major and now--'
'What's your name, then?' Ocelot interjected, unwilling to reveal his own.
Snake's lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile, 'John.'
Ocelot stared at him for a moment.
John. "Gracious gift of God."
The Western equivalent of Ivan.
It didn't matter. The American wasn't likely to provide his real name, anyway. Snake gave him a quizzical look when he didn't respond. A few more seconds passed, then Ocelot snapped back to attention and to his usual arrogant self. 'John,' he stated, a note of mockery in his voice. Tapping his head for emphasis, he stated truthfully, 'Plain name, but I won't forget it.'
Ever.