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“Morning, Commander!”
A small pack of Diamond Dogs salute to him as he passes. He grumbles out a greeting back, offering a wave of his hand in addition to the words. They hold the position until he disappears around the corner and begins the arduous task of ascending the stairs.
Kazuhira Miller slept in today, which is quite rare. Snake had finished a mission in Kabul last night and upon exfiltrating the hot zone with a stolen jeep, told both Kaz and Ocelot that he and Quiet were going to stake out some nearby outposts, see if they couldn’t learn any important pieces of intel, find any prisoners to rescue, or procure any resources or interesting plants.
Unwittingly, Kaz dozed off an hour later. When his head slammed against the desk and he shot up like he had just been, well, shot, he stood and left without a word, leaving Ocelot in the command tower all by his lonesome. (He also ignored the very amused upturn of Ocelot’s mouth on his way out.)
Kaz had slept hard, dead to the world. He honestly hadn’t slept that good in a long fucking time. He still woke up exhausted, of course, but a little less exhausted than the day before. This dreamless, restful sleep came at the simple cost of not hearing his alarm go off three times—at the cost of him not waking up until three hours than he usually started the day.
DD barks at him from the top landing of the stairs, his claws clicking on the metal grate. The wolfdog’s tail wags so quick and violent upon seeing him that Kaz sometimes thinks it’ll start rotating like a helicopter blade and lift the dog off the ground, never to be seen again. When he reaches the second to top stair, DD steps back just enough to give him room, tongue lolled out in pure bliss, even before Kaz scratches behind his ear and rubs his head and neck.
“Morning, DD,” he says with a fading smile.
DD responds with a delighted bark before rushing into the control room.
Kaz takes the last few steps. By the time he’s at his desk, he’s on the verge of sweating—that uncomfortable in between when you’re too hot but not enough to actually start regulating your internal temperature. He sits in the chair and leans the crutch against a nearby filing cabinet, then turns his attention to work.
The desk is exactly like how he left it last night. Some missives and requests mixed together on top of a manila folder filled with expense reports. He had been trying to decide what the next mission they could take on before his unceremonious departure last night, he remembers.
There are no alerts from Boss, and no pressing matters from the intel team also out in the field. All in all, it doesn’t seem to matter that he slept in. He tells himself that nothing happened, that he wasn’t needed, that it’s fine to catch up on sleep, several times before not believing it at all and throwing himself into the expense reports in order to focus on anything but his thoughts or things that weren’t numbers.
Kaz immediately loses his focus when the door to the adjacent and small break area slams open. He jumps in his seat and pretends not to have done that.
“Miller.” Ocelot’s warmly tinted, faux Texan, annoying as fuck voice fills the room, followed by the man’s presence itself. “I see you didn’t die in your sleep after all. I can’t say I’m not disappointed.”
“Die knowing you would become the next XO?” Kaz snorts, baring his teeth. “You’d run this place into the ground. A week, two tops.”
“I did run it while you were away and occupied, didn’t I?”
“Occupied? You mean when I was getting my arm sawed off? Sure.” A pause. “And when I got back and could finally check the reports you made, I almost wished you’d left me there so I didn’t have to clean up your mess!”
Ocelot sets a mug full of coffee on Kaz’s desk, already mixed with some cream. “Whoops,” he deadpans, leaning against the same cabinet the crutch leans on, holding a cup of his own coffee. He gives a sinister grin. “I’ll be sure to do better next time.”
Kaz doesn’t offer him a response. He only turns away in a huff, grabs the coffee, downs half of it, and continues working. But he can’t get very far because Ocelot still hasn’t left and returned to his own desk. Kaz can feel his creepy gaze on himself, can barely see Ocelot out of his peripheral, still leaning against the cabinet. Occasionally he hears him take a very quiet sip of his coffee. Kaz knows he’s standing there with his stupid grin and nonchalance.
When Kaz finally can’t take it anymore and moves to ask him what the fuck his problem is today, Ocelot sets the I ♡ DD mug on the top of the cabinet and closes the distance between them. Kaz startles as he spins Kaz’s chair around to make the man fully face him.
But then his crimson-gloved hands move towards his throat. Kaz tries to grab at him, ready to start yelling but Ocelot is quicker, holding his wrist with one hand while the other cups his cheek. Despite himself, Kaz flushes—not out of embarrassment, but from genuine fear, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. His heart lodges in his throat, where its quick heartbeat makes him nauseous.
“Relax.” Ocelot rubs his thumb against his cheek, the tip dipping beneath the rim of his glasses to swipe at the skin just below his eye. He waits a few moments before tentatively releasing Kaz’s hand.
Kaz does the opposite of what he’s been told to just do, which is let the fight part of fight or flight kick in. Knowing he’s at a severe disadvantage just by sitting down with Ocelot standing, Kaz tries to use it as a boon instead. By kicking Ocelot’s shin. With the prosthetic. And his newly released hand grabs at the scarf, trying to gather both ends in his hand. Let’s see who gets choked now, bitch.
Ocelot grunts, a tinge of annoyance crossing his face before he returns to the neutral look he had before. He easily takes hold of Kaz’s wrist again, squeezing so hard that Kaz can feel his nails through the leather. He holds Kaz’s face with the other hand, though his touch feels less warm now, more rough. Kaz is still flushed.
“Miller,” he warns, “I’m only going to fix your tie. Calm down.”
Kaz blinks. Looks down. Sure enough, his tie is fucked six ways to not even being a thing anymore. His blazer jacket is wrinkled to hell and back, too. He lets the tension in his shoulders go, keeping his gaze averted from Ocelot’s, which always seems to see too much.
When Ocelot lets go of his hand this time, he brings it to his lap and keeps it there. His heart stays stuck in his throat, though, because Ocelot’s fingers brush against his neck to realign the collar. He swears they linger. Or maybe he’s just crazy. He’s probably crazy.
“I’m surprised you made it back to your room without passing out again,” Ocelot says casually, breaking the silence. Kaz looks up at him to see that he’s smiling again, so he looks away but keeps his chin raised so it’s easier for the other to tie the tie. “I’m also surprised that not a single soldier of yours told you that you look like you’re on death’s door on the way in today.”
Kaz’s cheeks darken further. He feels the tug on the back of his neck familiar to necktie tying. “Yeah, well. I was too tired to get undressed last night, I guess. I’m sure they didn’t even really notice.”
Ocelot hums cryptically. Kaz hates when he does that. He can see Ocelot’s fingers deftly make an elaborate knot as he usually does when he fixes Kaz’s tie (it’s a knot that always holds the longest, but Kaz has never seen anyone else wear such a knot) from the corners of his eyes.
They don’t talk any further until after Ocelot tightens the knot (not too tight, but not too loose; respectable-looking, still) and smooths the collar down (Kaz swears his fingers linger again, which only confirms the theory he’s going crazy).
Ocelot leans back to admire his work. “There. Presentable again, as an XO should be.”
Kaz rolls his eyes. “Thanks—”
“Oh, wait. Something’s missing.”
Ocelot pulls something out of his back pocket with his left hand, threading his fingers through Kaz’s hair as a makeshift comb with his right. Kaz tenses, genuinely too shocked to give much of a reaction at all. Too shocked to even bark at him, ask him what he’s doing. He simply goes stock still, afraid to even breathe, as the other man brushes back his hair with the most careful touch that Kaz has ever seen him take. Ocelot fixes him with the something from his pocket—the beret.
“You forgot it last night, here in the control room,” explains Ocelot.
Kaz stares at him like they’ve both just grown three heads each. Behind the safety of his lenses, he blinks rapidly. Ocelot pats him on the shoulder, and he jumps before hurrying to spin the chair and scoot back under his desk. Numbers, numbers, numbers. There’s so many numbers to deal with.
Ocelot chuckles breathily as he returns to his own chair, picking up a newspaper.
Kaz used to not mind riding in helicopters. When he was younger, riding in one actually made him feel cool and badass and like a real soldier. He can admit those were very stupid thoughts, the thoughts of a child who wants to be just like his maladjusted father. Now he’s all grown up, and he fucking hates riding in them.
There are, namely, two reasons for this.
One: The obvious reason. He can’t get on a helicopter without being so high strung that he has to worry about his heart stopping mid flight just as much as a planted bomb he always feels is there. It doesn’t matter if it’s just him and the pilot and he had them check three times for any incendiaries, even though the helicopter might have been grounded at Mother Base for some time, too. It put him on edge, nauseating him. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat on his skin, hear the ringing in his ears.
Two: The other obvious reason. Getting on and disembarking is a royal pain in the ass for him now, and he’s far too prideful to feel nothing but shame at needing some sort of aid. The staff and Snake don’t say anything about it, don’t react. They treat it like just another fact of life. That at least lets him get over it fairly quickly, until the next time. Ocelot, on the rare occasion he’s the one helping him… well…
Spurs whir then click softly as Ocelot, sitting next to him on his right, uncrosses then crosses his legs at the knee. This is the sixth time he’s done it on this flight alone, and it’s not a very long flight from the Command Platform to the Medical Platform, all things considered.
“Can you stop that?”
Ocelot gives him an innocent, sidelong glance. “Hmm? Stop what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” snaps Kaz. “Just sit still. I know you can.”
“Hmm.” As Ocelot considers the request, he uncrosses and crosses his legs again.
Kaz drops the crutch he’d been white knuckling and reaches across his own chest to Ocelot’s thigh, shoving it rough and hard until Ocelot gets the point and uncrosses his legs altogether.
“There,” he huffs. “Be good and sit still.”
Ocelot laughs dryly. “Alright, alright.” He reaches down and picks the crutch back up, which Kaz rips out of his hand, and sits back, casual as fucking ever.
Kaz readjusts himself in the seat, too. He stares at the window across from him. They’re the only ones in the helicopter besides the pilot. It’s fine. Kaz takes solace in the fact that, if the helicopter spontaneously combusts or malfunctions and it goes down, at least Ocelot would go down with him. He closes his eyes and breathes steadily. He sees Paz jump out of the helicopter, he sees the fire and shrapnel, he feels the burns on his arms and something tearing into his leg. He sees Big Boss in the line of fire, he feels the cool water shocking him back awake. He doesn’t see, he can’t feel, he—
—feels a hand on his knee, squeezing. His eyes snap open and he takes in a big breath, so deep he nearly chokes on the sudden intake. He exhales all of it and then some. He doesn’t turn his head, just stares straight ahead. Ocelot’s hand remains on his knee until the helicopter lands and he stands up to haul the door open.
Kaz breathes easy again. He, too, rises to his feet and stands at the edge of the cabin opening, looking down at Ocelot. After only a few moments (but they feel like forever to Kaz), Ocelot smiles, stops making him wait, and takes one step back into the helicopter. Kaz grits his teeth.
Ocelot wraps his arm under both of Kaz’s, secure and firm. As Kaz leans against his shoulder, fingers holding fast to the crutch, he tries not to pay attention to the fact Ocelot’s more lithe arm holds him tighter than Snake’s does. Kaz is just going crazy, that’s all. They step out of the helicopter together as one.
Unluckily for Kaz, as soon as his first step lands, his ankle rolls. The only thing going through his head is how fucking pissed he is that he has to fall in front of Ocelot of all people. He braces for the impact.
But it never comes. At least, not an impact of him landing flat on his face and maybe breaking his nose or glasses; instead, his face crashes into Ocelot’s shoulder as the other man grabs him with both arms now, swinging him around like an old, broken door on rusty hinges, until they’re chest to chest.
He’s wearing just the faintest bit of cologne, enough to raise the hairs on the back of Kaz’s neck. It’s a mature but light scent: Wet bourbon and bitter almonds. Sweet but not overtly so. Ocelot smells nice.
“Woah there,” Ocelot breathes out, as if he’s talking to a fucking horse, and Kaz remembers where the fuck he is, and who the fuck is holding him, “watch your step.”
Kaz shrugs him off forcefully, at the risk of actually falling over—which, unluckily again, nearly happens. Ocelot grabs him by the upper arm, steadying him like a baby horse this time. Once Kaz looks fine enough, Ocelot lets his hand slip off of Kaz’s arm (not remove it like a normal person; he lets it slip off, but maybe Kaz is just crazy) and picks up the crutch that Kaz had initially dropped in shock at the first almost-tumble.
Yanking the crutch away from him, Kaz walks off towards his stupid check-up. He hears Ocelot laugh beneath his breath as the spurs trail behind him.
DD whines, positioned at Ocelot’s feet halfway beneath his desk. The wolfdog is far too big to fit all the way under, but he seems to like shoving as much of himself under as he could fit at the cost of both his and Ocelot’s own comfort. Not looking away from the map in front of him, Ocelot leans over and scratches DD’s back, near the butt awkwardly sticking out. This prompts another whine from DD, louder this time.
“Why don’t you take him out for a walk?” Kaz suggests, sitting across from him at his own desk, with the last mission report in his hands. “Boss is always off with that damned woman now. Dogs like him need a lot of exercise, don’t they?”
Ocelot flicks his gaze at him, down to DD, then back to Kaz. A look comes across his face that makes Kaz immediately regret saying anything.
“That means you, too, right?” Ocelot says this extremely seriously, as if it were anything at all worth pondering.
Kaz narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
“If dogs need exercise, then you should come on the walk with DD, too.”
Thankfully, Kaz cannot make even more of a fool himself even though he had been about to do just that, because DD crawls all the way under Ocelot’s desk until he pops out on the other side, next to Kaz. He slips his head into Kaz’s lap, looking up at him with a single big, wet eye, tail wagging ferociously.
“Fine,” Kaz relents. “The medical staff say I need to get out more anyway.”
Halfway down the stairs, Kaz thinks about turning back. The air is thick and humid, making his clothing stick to his skin and chafe his ass. If he gives up now, though, before the actual walk even began, Ocelot would never let him live it down. He’d even go tattle on him to the Medical Platform and then Kaz would be stuck doing some menial exercises instead of being able to support Boss. That’s happened twice now. He can’t do it a third.
So he puffs out his chest and finishes the rest of the steps. Ocelot and DD both patiently wait for him at the bottom, and then they set off, DD in between both of them, panting so much (as usual) and tail wagging, sometimes smacking either of their legs. DD barks and pulls out a little ahead.
They walk in silence for a bit, which is good because Kaz doesn’t want to particularly speak to Ocelot even when he’s not in motion. Aside from greeting a few soldiers, they don’t say anything. Ocelot strolls leisurely with his hands folded behind his back, going at such a snail’s pace that even Kaz thinks he’s going way too slow. DD keeps running off and disappearing between buildings, reappearing a few minutes later more excited than before. Kaz matches Ocelot’s pace, forcing himself to slow down a little.
Despite the absolute crawl that is this walk, the sun is still giving off an obscene amount of heat. After only ten minutes, the air had become so stagnant and humid, Kaz feels like swimming might be easier. He finds his feet start dragging. The light starts to bother him, piercing even through his sunglasses. Sweat sticks to his face and five o’clock shadow and neck and clothes, making him feel like he’s stuck in a drenched, oversized trench coat.
So focused on just putting one foot in front of the other without letting go of the crutch and/or collapsing in a heap, Kaz doesn’t immediately notice when Ocelot veers off to the left. Only when he hears DD start barking happily at his right side, then biting at his left coat tails does he notice Ocelot has, in fact, disappeared. Groaning, Kaz follows DD into the shadow of a building and a set of stairs.
“Good boy,” says Ocelot, crouching down from his spot also deep in the shade.
Kaz frowns, drawing his brows close together. “What the hell did you say?” He’s predisposed to being irritated but the heat is making it worse. He knows this and doesn’t care, since it’s Ocelot.
Ocelot, petting DD all over and giving him plenty of scratches on his belly when the wolfdog flops over and shows it, just smiles at Kaz and says nothing. Too exhausted to argue, Kaz drops it, leaning against the wall. The metal feels cool on his cheek, which, of course, he’s pressing against said wall. He reaches up and pulls his hat off, shoving it into one of his outer coat pockets.
When there are fingers pressing against the shoulder not against the wall (along with his cheek), he startles, swearing under his breath and jumping away, which just ends up with him banging his knee against the wall. The glare he shoots Ocelot, who hasn’t removed his hand and has, in fact, slipped it closer to the center of Kaz’s chest, could kill the other if Ocelot was affected by something as simple as a look.
“What are you doing?” he hisses. Too exhausted to fight back, he lets Ocelot’s hand wrap around the lapel of his coat, barely aware of it.
“You’re going to get heat exhaustion, if you haven’t already,” explains Ocelot simply. “I’m trying to spare the medical staff your wrath.” His right hand presses against the small of Kaz’s back, then, with a grin, he slips behind Kaz and tries to tug the coat all the way off.
Kaz lets it happen. He’s cold now, not hot. Ocelot drapes the sweat laden coat over the railing to the nearby stairs and, still standing behind him, presses his fingers against the left of Kaz’s neck, just under where the chin meets it. Kaz tilts his head back and away. Ocelot’s fingers are cool against his skin, mostly soft but dappled in raised lines, as if scars. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall again. He feels crazy for the relief that these hands bring him—
By the time Kaz realizes and whips around, Ocelot has just finished putting the glove back on. Kaz scowls.
“Your pulse is fine,” Ocelot says plainly before Kaz can open his mouth. “Your temperature also feels fine, so let’s just sit here and take a break. Do you want me to—”
Kaz pushes past Ocelot and sits squarely on the stairs. He loosens his tie, still glaring at the other. “I don’t want anything from you.”
The smile Ocelot gives him is unreadable. He nods, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Kaz looks away. DD lies down at Kaz’s feet and closes his eye.
If there’s one constant at Mother Base, it’s this: There’s always some fucking paperwork to be doing. Kaz doesn’t mind doing paperwork, really. He just hates that when he’s not directly providing support for Snake, he’s practically chained to the desk in the control room. Balancing the books, talking to clients, deciding who to trust and who to be cautious around, figuring out how they’re going to make room for Snake’s various gerbils he keeps catching.
Phone calls and paperwork, and occasionally supporting Boss out in the field. Yup. That’s all he’s really good for nowadays, isn’t he?
Kaz groans and leans back in the chair, far enough to be on the verge of tipping it over, pushing his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s not even noon and he’s already going to lose his mind. Don’t get him wrong: Worry and anxiety practically pour out of his ass when Boss is on a mission and he’s the one on comms. But he’d take those feelings over the boredom he’s felt for three days straight. Because Boss is out doing fuck all recon with Quiet again.
If Kaz was a jealous man, and he is, he’d start thinking they’re doing more than just recon out there.
Making a face, he forcibly pushes that thought from his mind. He lets his hand drop to his side, and his eyes unfocus as he stares at the ceiling. He completely and utterly empties his mind of any coherent thought.
Clack.
Kaz sits up abruptly—quick enough that his already lopsided glasses fall all the way off his face and onto the floor, disappearing into the void that is underneath his desk. He’ll find a way to get them later; for now, he focuses on the man by his left side, having down a cup of coffee on Kaz’s desk. Ocelot’s gloved hands still hold the cup above from the rim, even though it’s fully fine to let go. His other hand is against the back of Kaz’s chair now that he’s sat it back up. Kaz looks between Ocelot’s face (half casted in shadow because of how dim they keep the room, the other half unreadable and unknowable) and the cup.
As soon as his eyes fall on the cup, Ocelot’s hand turns it so that the handle is facing to the left, bringing it closer to the edge, but not too close it might be at risk of being knocked off. Ocelot releases the cup and drops to a crouch. One hand holds the edge of the desk as his other prowls around beneath it, dipping his head under, too.
His hand brushes against Kaz’s leg, sending a jolt through his body. Ocelot doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if he did, he doesn’t care. Kaz doesn’t like that he can’t see his face from this angle, and he also doesn’t like that he sits there dumbly as Ocelot leans closer to him. His bony shoulder pushes into Kaz’s outer thigh, lighting every nerve in his body on fire. He sucks in a tiny, tiny breath.
But then the pressure disappears, and Ocelot is standing next to him again, back on his feet. He holds the glasses almost reverently, which is impossible because this is Ocelot, so Kaz is almost certainly going crazy for reading that in his small smile. Maybe he’d gone crazy long ago and is just in denial.
Ocelot checks the glasses over thoroughly for any signs of breakage, then uses one of the ends of his scarf to polish both of the lenses. With wide eyes, Kaz watches, but he doesn’t say anything. Ocelot doesn’t, either.
They make eye contact when Ocelot holds the glasses up, slips them onto Kaz’s face. His fingers brush into his hair, almost imperceptibly so. His thumbs press into his cheeks, just below his eyes. Kaz blinks up at him, suddenly thankful for the barrier between them, and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.
Ocelot withdraws his hands. He returns to his desk across from Kaz and unfurls again the map he’d been studying. He doesn’t look at Kaz, so Kaz looks away, to the cup of coffee on his left side, with the handle pointed to the left.
Over the rim of the mug, while he drinks fresh coffee done up just how he likes it, he notices Ocelot didn’t make one for himself.
Even though the door had opened so quietly and closed even quieter, and even though there had been no knock, and even though the intruder did not announce his presence, and even though Kaz has his back to the door, Kaz knows that Ocelot prowls about in his room solely by the way the energy in the air changes. He knows it can be no one else but him.
Kaz doesn’t react. He doesn’t turn around or greet him or do anything but what he’s currently doing: lying in the bed, curled up in on himself in a crumpled up, disgusting mess of sweat, blood, and pain.
His blunt nails dig into his right arm, nearly piercing the skin, right above where the arm prematurely and supposedly ends. He squeezes his arm tighter, trying to draw blood like the other small wounds he feels all over his body, ramming into him like a thousand needles over and over. His teeth chatter, and he clamps his jaw tight so that he at least prevents them from chipping (or showing any further weakness in front of Ocelot, still prowling the room and slinking around by his bed, somewhere, somewhere). He’s only in his undergarments—shirt and boxers—and they’ve been so thoroughly drenched that they’re actively working against the chattering issue. He’s freezing.
His right hand hurts. It hurts so bad he wishes he could grow another one and cut it off again. A thick, rusty nail used for railroads drives through the palm; with each hammer, he feels his vision blur more and more around the edges.
Kaz shifts in the bed, curling up even tighter on himself. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t crying silently. But as a survivor—as someone who swears to take revenge on behalf of all of his fallen friends and comrade—he needs this pain. No matter how badly it hurts. He desires it. It is not just his pain: It is the pain of every fallen MSF soldier. It is Paz’s pain. It is Big Boss’s pain.
The very small, shitty mattress dips down ever-so slightly, the front of Ocelot’s thigh pressing against his back. It’s so hot against him. Burn him. Let him go down with the helicopter. Please, for the love of God—
“Alright, Miller. Up and at’em.”
Gloved fingers thread through his hair, matted with both dried and fresh sweat, and they pull. Rough. They force him to crane his neck, to peer out into mostly-darkness, to gaze, unfocused, into light grey eyes, which have never been so severe. He can’t tell what Ocelot is thinking. Can he ever? The pain makes it worse. Ocelot thumbs at the skin beneath his eyes, pulling his lids down and looking closer, so close that Ocelot’s calm, even, measured breaths mingle with his own erratic ones.
“C’mon, that’s enough moping around.”
Ocelot’s fingers shift to his mouth, attempting to pry it open with his thumb and forefinger; he gets his thumb between Kaz’s teeth and yanks his jaw down. When he does so, Ocelot slips some number of pills into his mouth and holds his haw shut. His other hand is still in Kaz’s hair. He’s wearing gloves. As usual.
The pills dissolve on his tongue and it actually takes quite a lot of effort to swallow it. He’s weeping again. Ocelot holds him for a little bit longer, until he stops weeping and starts sniffling instead. He’s pathetic. He’s definitely crazy. He doesn’t even care anymore. He does care.
Ocelot steps off of the mattress and lets Kaz’s head fall back to the pillow. It feels weightless. He lets go of his upper arm. After however long, the pain subsides into a dull, throbbing ache. Ever present.
Professional as always, Ocelot says nothing as he rolls Kaz over to his other side then pulls him first to a sitting position then standing. He wraps Kaz’s arm around his shoulders and kicks open the bathroom door. The jingle of the spurs make Kaz’s headache worse. Ocelot walks him all the way to the shower, sits him on the stool inside. He peels away Kaz’s shirt and then reaches for his underwear.
This makes Kaz lucid enough to start snapping at him, barking at him like a dog giving a very serious warning. He shoves at Ocelot’s hands, still gloved.
“I-I can do it myself! Don’t touch me!”
Ocelot rolls his eyes but otherwise steps back. “Fine. I’ll go clean up your mess of a room.” He closes the door as he says the last word, never looking back.
Kaz stares at the palm of his hand. He wishes Ocelot looked back.
He understands the assignment, however. He removes his underwear and turns the water on. Maybe the water is a little too hot, but his head, stuffed full of cotton, doesn’t seem to mind even as his skin turns red (he wishes Ocelot looked back). He lets it rinse over him for a long, long while (he wishes Ocelot looked back). He washes himself with great effort and energy (he wishes Ocelot looked back). He shuts the water off and towels his hair dry and wraps it around his waist and he wishes Ocelot looked back.
Using the sink as an aid, he hobbles out of the bathroom. His sheets have been changed and his bed has been made. The clutter on the floor he forgot about has been sorted and organized. The outfit Ocelot picked lies on the bed, neatly lined up in the order Kaz would put them on in, from left to right. Methodical.
Ocelot sits on the chair at the desk in the corner. He’s hunched over, eyes closed, forearms resting on his knees. His fingers are steepled together at the tips, tented. He stays like that, still as a marbled statue or corpse beginning to set rigidly, until Kaz collapses on the bed and gets his boxers on.
Kneeling down in front of Kaz, Ocelot holds the prosthetic leg in his hands. He doesn’t seem to wait for Kaz to say anything; he just takes Kaz’s thigh and moves it about, fits the stump with the gear and dressings required for the prosthetic, then (with one flick of his eyes upward, catching Kaz’s own; Kaz freezes) attaches it, one belt, one buckle, at a time. His crimson fingers dig into the tense muscles and skin, pulling the straps tight enough that it will stay put, slipping his fingers under the straps to test that they’re not so tight they’ll cut off blood flow.
Kaz gasps at the attention. He closes his eyes and looks away, curling his fingers into the fresh blankets and messing them up. His face feels hot.
Ocelot attaches the prosthetic in a way that most people would consider “cold and detached.” He does so in the same manner as the first time he had to put it on. Kaz remembers. But it’s been quite a long time since then, and his head is so featherlight, and he thinks he could start crying again.
Instead, he obediently lifts his arms so that Ocelot can pull the undershirt over his head. His fingers smooth the fabric down his back and sides, and maybe Kaz really should start crying again. From here, Kaz can feel Ocelot’s warmth, made more apparent by the fact he isn’t clothed much at all. He’s chilly. He left his window open.
Much of the rest of getting dressed goes the same. Dress shirt, then socks and pants, then blazer, then shoes. Kaz thinks about objecting, to insisting he can do it himself, but for some crazy ass fucking reason, he doesn’t. He’d rather be humiliated by Ocelot, of all people, dressing him, apparently. He can do it on his own. He wants to do it on his own. But Ocelot can do it for him, just this once.
The other man pins his right sleeves up in a very neat fold, much neater than anyone else who does that for him. Ocelot takes the sunglasses tossed haphazardly onto his bedside table, unfolds them, inspects them for dust, then slips them onto Kaz’s face. He runs his gloved fingers through Kaz’s mostly dry hair, trying to style it then giving up, likely when he realized that most would be covered by the beret anyway.
Ocelot takes two curt steps back and crosses his arms, frown set deeply in his features. He looks tired. Exhausted. Older than he really is. Kaz looks away.
“Thanks,” he croaks.
Ocelot lets his hands fall to his sides. He opens his mouth as if about to say something, changes his mind, and leaves. He keeps the door cracked open.
Like most nights, Kaz is unable to sleep. He’ll lie there and toss and turn and swear and sometimes, yes, even turn to the bottle. But his bottles are dry and his prescriptions have run out, tonight. He doesn’t feel like staring at the ceiling for six hours then “waking up,” and repeating it until he collapses from exhaustion at some random point in time. Maybe if he gets up now he can accelerate the process—collapse in record time.
He can’t sleep this night because of the rain, though. It pelts against his window like it’s trying to break the glass and kill him. Sometimes there’s even lightning and thunder, but mostly it’s just a good old rainstorm. Loud, though.
Huffing, Kaz gets to his feet, leaning on the crutch as he shrugs on his coat and his hat. He’ll go take a brisk walk to get some energy out in the cold rain, come back and take a nice warm shower, and hopefully get to sleep after that.
He does sort of regret it once he’s outside in the storm. The wind is bitter cold. The raindrops are fat and pack a punch. Even the patrols have disappeared, likely looking for cover. But he is nothing if not stubborn. The chill will be good for him, probably.
Other than the rain really coming down, the only other sounds are his uneven footsteps and the crashing of the waves against Mother Base’s support pillars. He stops at the edge of the base, peering over the railing. What’s that one quote? Look into the abyss and it’ll stare back, or something? Well, whatever it is, Kaz, mesmerized, watches the inky black ocean lap at the sides of his home, and he does, in fact, feel like something looks back.
He snaps his head up, forcing his eyes away. Don’t look at me.
In the distance, Kaz sees a figure. They stand at the railing a short walk away, just far enough that Kaz can’t see who they are. What he can see is that they don’t move.
Fear catches on the way he swallows his spit. But, again, Kaz is nothing if not stubborn. He makes his way over.
“Ocelot?”
Kaz stops around fifteen feet away from the figure, from the side. The rain has let up a little by now, and the wind whips around him. Crimson, blood red, gloves grip the railing like a lifeline. Ocelot’s eyes seem sunken into his head, but Kaz is sure that’s just a trick of the light (even if there is no light in this corner of Mother Base). His lips are moving, but Kaz can’t hear a damned thing.
For a moment, he wonders if Ocelot is religious. They’ve never spoken about religion before, because Kaz is not a religious man by and large. It’s never been relevant to anything they’ve talked about prior. Kaz feels like Ocelot isn’t religious, but Kaz also thinks Ocelot appears to be praying.
“Ocelot?” he tries again, closing the gap between them to just five feet.
The man still doesn’t look up. Kaz can now see he’s trembling, shaking, shivering. Has he been out here since before the storm even started? His eyes are dull. He’s saying nothing, but looks like he’s saying everything. Concern warps with the fear still in Kaz’s throat, and he acts before he thinks:
Shrugging his coat off, letting the crutch clatter to the ground as he closes the gap completely, Kazuhira Miller struggles and wraps the only thing that’s keeping him warm in this wind and rain around this man he loathes.
Ocelot startles, turning on him. Kaz watches as he grips the gun at his hip, the wet leather creaking from the force. Kaz also watches the exact moment that Ocelot realizes who he’s facing, and the transformation from “cold-blooded assassin” into “guy who I can barely tolerate but is useful” is stark and somewhat depressing.
“Miller,” he says with a nod, letting his hand fall to the side, away from the gun. He glances sidelong at the coat on his shoulders, still trembling. Kaz thinks he looks so thin, all skin and bones and sinewy muscle. “Thought you were in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Kaz replies, but it sounds like a lie.
Ocelot shrugs, looking back to the sea. The waves still roil with fury, despite the calming weather. “Me neither.” He smiles, small and barely there.
“What…” Kaz’s voice feels foreign on his tongue. He takes a step closer, using the railing as support. “What the hell were you doing?”
“Hmm? Oh, don’t worry.”
“I-I wasn’t worried—!” Kaz stops himself short, because now not only does he not recognize his voice, but that voice also sounds like a petulant child fighting an argument that exists only in his own mind. “… Just tell me, what were you doing? How long have you been out here? What’s wrong?”
Ocelot leans against the railing, crossing his legs at the ankles. The stupid spurs apparently act as his answer, for he doesn’t reply.
So Kaz steps closer, reaching for his forearm. “Ocel—”
What follows reminds him of the beginning of CQC, and his heart aches only a little. Just as Kaz’s fingers brush his arm, Ocelot snatches his wrist and holds his hand aloft, in between them both. The leather hisses as it squeezes, thumb over the inside of his wrist, pressing the hardest against the veins there. Ocelot also steps closer, sliding his foot closer to Kaz’s as if he were moments away from sweeping him to the ground. He bares his teeth. His dull grey eyes glint in the low light, much like a blade.
“I said.”
His fingers squeeze the wrist so tightly, Kaz is sure he’ll have a mark.
“Don’t.”
He tugs on Kaz’s arm, as if to punctuate this singular word.
“Worry.”
He lets the threat hang openly in the air.
But Kaz doesn’t flinch, or wince, or back down. He stands his ground, and he shakes his head. “Ocelot, if you’ve got something weird going on, I don’t care, but I have to know. What if it’s a risk to us, to Diamond—”
Abruptly, Ocelot presses his forehead against Kaz’s. He’s let go of his wrist, snaking his hand to the back of his neck, fingertips pressing into Kaz’s damp hair. Kaz sucks in a breath, eyes widening, and he stands there. Stupidly. His head feels like floating away.
“Miller,” murmurs Ocelot, after taking a few shallow breaths of his own, “I’ll…be fine. So please. Don’t worry about me.”
Kaz’s hand slips from the air in between them to Ocelot’s shoulder. Kaz will later say it did this of its own accord. His fingers find purchase in a mixture of his wet shirt and wet scarf. He just needs something to steady him. Something solid. Something real. He’s sure Ocelot is real.
With their faces mere inches apart, and despite the earlier rain, Kaz can smell the faintest remnants of cologne. Lilies and tobacco, smoked together, as one. Ocelot leans in closer. Their noses touch, nestled against one another. Kaz closes his eyes, and he doesn’t know if Ocelot closes his.
He can feel the prickly hairs of the greyed mustache brush against his upper lip. His breath hitches. And he even wants to cry. He doesn’t know why. Ocelot is so warm, so close. Kaz tries to pull him even closer.
But then, as the last drops of rain fall on the pair, the rotating blades of a helicopter soar over the calming sea waves just beyond the railing they share. Ocelot isn’t close anymore. His hand has slipped down to Kaz’s upper arm. The scent of smoke and lilies has disappeared, washed away with the rain. Kaz opens his eyes, only to see Ocelot is looking away, watching as the helicopter dips below a strut and makes its way to the landing pad. Kaz is looking at him.
“Looks like Boss is home.”
Ocelot pats him on the shoulder and pulls away entirely to lean down and pick up the crutch, left forgotten on the ground. He guides Kaz’s hand to its handle, gentle and reassuring, with an equally gentle and reassuring smile on his lips. One palm covers the top of Kaz’s hand, while the other gingerly closes his fingers around the grip. Then he releases that hand, red gloves leaving exposure trails in Kaz’s vision.
Kaz finally closes his slack mouth, swallowing. He trembles, but he can’t tell if it’s because the chill is finally catching up with him or for some other reason or maybe some fucked up combination of a variety of reasons he doesn’t care to think about right now. His heart races in his ears, loud and imposing and frantic.
“I’ll go welcome him,” says Ocelot slowly. “You should try and go back to bed. Change into dry clothes first. Wouldn’t do anyone good for you to go out like this.”
Kaz wants to reach out to him. He wants to root him into place and scream at him. Instead, he stands stock still, nodding absently at Ocelot’s instructions, silently wishing Ocelot went to sleep instead. He never averts his gaze. He is nothing if not stubborn.
“Oh—I’ll return the coat tomorrow after I dry it.” Ocelot pats him on the back, a single, impersonal clap. It burns through Kaz’s layers and singes his skin. “Thanks for looking out for me, Miller.”
For the next few moments, every time Kaz blinks, Ocelot has walked farther and farther away. First it’s only ten feet, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred. Then he can’t see Ocelot at all.
Kaz grits his teeth and slowly turns away. He doesn’t think of anything in this moment. Maybe he thinks about how exhausted he is. He puts one foot in front of the crutch, again and again, shuffling back to his room.
He looks back once, then faces forward again, head held up high and shoulders broad. He neuters every bit of emotion that could be on his face in that moment, no matter what it may be. He walks forward, slow and steady.
The rain has long since ceased, so Kazuhira Miller forces himself to ignore his damp cheeks.