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“Snake. Do you know how to tie one of these?”
In the lantern glow of Master Miller’s office, Snake shakes his head slowly, unsure if that’s the answer Miller wants to hear.
“No, sir,” he says. It’s the truth. No one’s ever bothered to teach him.
Behind his sunglasses, Master almost looks disappointed, and Snake wonders if he’s failed this little test. Miller’s lips flatten like his patience is wearing thin. Then, without a word, he undoes his tie with his real hand and beckons Snake closer with the other.
Snake moves around the desk separating them and steps in close. Close enough to see the pale irises of his eyes and the faint scarring around his jaw.
Miller demonstrates in silence. Loop, under, pass, pass, up, pass, through.
He makes it look easy. Snake finds himself wondering who once taught him.
“Windsor knot,” Miller finally says, cinching it. “Standard. Appearances are just as important as knowing who to trust. People judge what they see. Look put-together, and people will respect you. That buys you time or favor. Should give you some leverage, anyhow.”
He undoes the tie once again and hands it to Snake to practice for himself. “Your turn.”
Snake nods and does as he’s told. He’s always been good at following orders.
Now, standing in the middle of their safehouse living room in a tailored suit and a business tie, the practice has proven to be worthwhile. Despite all the time that’s passed, Snake’s hands can work their way through the motions on their own accord without him having to put much thought into it, even when the silk catches on his calluses.
Snake had bitten his tongue when he and Hal had received their disguises for tonight. Their getups are too flashy and too expensive for his taste, but it's all for a mission after all, so there’s no use in complaining. (And Snake figures Pliskin would enjoy such a luxury, so he’s taking it all in stride).
From the bathroom, Hal lets out a frustrated huff. Snake glances up to see his partner standing at the sink, wrestling with his tie and tugging at the collar of his shirt like it’s already restricting airflow.
The ammonia tang of cheap boxed hair dye still hangs in the stagnant air of their bathroom. Snake had worked the dye through Hal’s hair the night before, section by section, until every trace of his natural brown was covered in jet-black.
The color makes Hal look colder. Sharper. Handsome, too, although Snake privately prefers the brown. It made Hal look kind.
Still, it’s all part of their plan. Mei-Ling had instructed them to make drastic changes, and they did.
(She’s also been messaging them all day for photos. “Purely for my records,” she claims, although Snake’s certain she just wants it for her own amusement).
Hal’s suit fits him well enough to the point where the dingy bathroom he’s standing in makes him look comically out of place. Both of them look like they don't belong here.
Snake’s suit matches his, save the tie. Hal’s is a deep navy, Snake’s is a forest green. Each piece of their ensembles were picked out by Mei-Ling herself, and she has quite the eye for fashion.
Miller would’ve approved.
“Looking good,” Snake says, stepping into the doorway.
Hal squints at him, still adjusting to his new contact lenses. “Liar. I look like a dove’s about to fly out of my sleeve.”
Snake snorts at the imagery before gesturing for him to scoot aside. His partner obliges, stepping to the right so they can both look at themselves in the mirror.
Their reflections look like complete strangers. Good.
Hal isn’t the only one who’d gotten the salon treatment. Snake had handed Hal their clippers earlier this morning and told him to buzz it with a number three all over, and now his hair is just as short as it had been during his days in FOXHOUND. His head’s been cold all day.
No one should be able to recognize them as Solid Snake and Otacon tonight. That’s the end goal here. Right now, they just look like two assholes in expensive suits.
He nudges Hal with his elbow to get his attention. “You still good with the plan?” Snake asks.
His partner shrugs, giving up on the tie and moving on to fuss with his hair. “I mean- at least we get dinner out of it,” he says before laughing nervously. “There are worse ways to spend a Friday night, right?”
Snake can’t argue with that. It’s selfish, probably, to use Philanthropy funds to wine and dine themselves on steak and lobster under the thin pretense of operational necessity, but fuck it. They’ve spent the past year risking their lives for the greater good. They deserve to have a nice dinner for once.
Still, they can’t afford to let their guard down. Snake gives Hal a serious look. “We’ll be in public.”
“I know,” Hal says, pointedly not meeting his eyeline.
“It’s supposed to look like a date.”
“Right,” Hal says. “I was at the briefing too. Believe it or not, I have been on dates before.”
“Right,” Snake echoes, suddenly curious. “And the last time you went on one was…?”
Hal’s entire face scrunches. “Um. College, probably.”
“So. Nearly a decade ago.”
“Okay,” Hal says, pausing his fidgeting to poke Snake hard on the shoulder. “Rude. Why does it matter? We’re just pretending until the guy shows up. Hopefully it’s after we finish our food.”
“Pretending will be the hardest part. We need to practice.”
“Practice what?” Hal says, shifting his attention to his tie again, which he’s done up in a lopsided knot. Snake cringes internally. Miller would’ve made him run laps for that. “I know how to sit at a table and eat food.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Snake says.
“Like what?” Hal asks, a little irritated.
For a bona fide genius, Snake wonders how Hal can sometimes be so dense. He’s probably focused squarely on logistics right now- where they’re meeting, what time, what table- rather than the optics.
“I’m just saying-” Snake explains, reaching out to bat Hal’s hands away so he can fix his tie for him. Loop, under, pass, pass, up, pass, through, he thinks. “-We can’t afford to look suspicious just because our chemistry seems off.” Even though he could do it blind, Snake keeps his eyes squarely on the tie.
As expected, Hal stiffens. “Chemistry?” he questions.
Snake can’t believe he's explaining this. “How we interact with each other. If we seem uncomfortable or awkward, people will notice.”
Hal frowns, thinking it through. “Okay, but how exactly are we supposed to practice… that?”
Snake pauses before stepping back to analyze Hal’s appearance and body language. He looks the part, but his partner’s innate nervousness still screams Otacon. They’ll have to smooth that over before heading out.
“Well,” Snake says, “We need to get used to being close.” He tries his best to keep his voice as clinical as possible because he knows any hint of teasing will send his partner spiraling. “The more natural it feels here, the more natural it’ll look later tonight.”
Hal doesn’t say anything, but nods, seemingly understanding. So Snake starts small, moving in to fiddle with Hal’s collar, then fixing the cowlick in his hair before resting his hands heavily on his shoulders.
Hal’s still tense, but it isn’t as obvious as before. “Good,” Snake says. “That’s… a little better.”
God knows how they’ve shared a bed for months now, and yet Hal still shies away at the smallest touches. Snake wonders if it’s pre-mission nerves or something else entirely.
“You really do look good,” he offers. He means it. Hal always looks good, even though he’s always making self-deprecating jokes about his face, his hair, his body. Snake has never understood why his partner is so hard on himself. Those are all the composite parts that make Hal who he is, and Snake’s never found anything worth criticizing.
“Don’t start,” Hal says sardonically, looking past Snake’s shoulder to the mirror. “I look like a magician,” he groans. “You literally look like James Bond.”
Snake fights the urge to roll his eyes. There was once a time when Hal would’ve called him that unironically, voice full of wondrous awe and amazement. The hero comparisons always made him uncomfortable, and he never liked it when Hal put him up on a pedestal. Thank God those days are over.
“I mean it,” Snake says softly. “You clean up nice. Should make it easier to ‘act’ tonight.”
Hal gives him a sideways look, finally catching on. “Are you flirting with me, Pliskin?”
Snake shrugs, playing innocent. “I can, if you’ll let me.”
Hal snorts and looks away again, but this time he’s smiling, and the smirk ends up shifting into something more contemplative. It seems to Snake that his partner is thinking about something- doing mental calculus and weighing outcomes in his head, the way he does whenever he’s about to commit to an action.
And then, to his genuine surprise, Hal steps back into his space, hands sliding up to Snake’s shoulders like they’re about to slow dance.
Hal’s lips twitch like he’s about to say something (a joke? a question?), but instead, Hal leans to give him a quick peck that barely lands on the side of his mouth.
It’s hardly a kiss, but the unexpected contact sends a rush of blood to his head.
And then, because he can’t think of anything intelligent to say, Snake says, “That’s how you’d kiss your fake boyfriend?”
Hal groans in his face, then dips forward, forehead pressing hard into Snake’s chest. “I- that was just practice, alright? Bear with me here.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Snake teases. "Take your time, I'm not going anywhere."
“Good,” Hal murmurs, the playful tone returning even though his face is starting to flush red. “Because I think we should nail this down. You know. For the mission and all.”
“Right,” Snake agrees, even though the mission is the last thing he’s thinking about right now. He’s focused on Hal, how close he is, how nice he smells, and how long he’s been waiting for his partner to let his guard down.
Hal lifts his head again, and the smile that breaks across his face is more open and unguarded than Snake’s ever seen before.
“Okay,” he says, determined. “Let me try that one more time.”