Chapter Text
The shrill sound of the alarm clock pulls him out of a dream, forgotten the moment it dissipates. It’s warm beneath the thin grey army blanket; warmer still when Kazuhira’s arm coils around his chest, pulling him closer until he can feel his breath against his shoulder.
“Already?” Kazuhira grumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
“Mm,” Ocelot hums in response. He has to get up, splash some water on his face, and prepare for the journey ahead.
“Do you really have to go?”
“You know I do.”
Kaz huffs out a breath, his displeasure all too apparent in the ensuing silence.
“I’ll be back soon,” Ocelot attempts to reassure him. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“I will,” Kaz affirms, softly enough to stir a faint pang of guilt over something Ocelot can’t control. “Don’t go just yet.”
Ocelot’s fingers slide along the forearm pinning him in place, finely carved muscle shifting faintly beneath his touch. “Kaz…”
“Shhh.” Soft lips press against the corner of his neck. “Not yet.”
“Kaz,” he repeats, every intention of sounding firmer this time.
“Fuck the Soviets. Aren’t you a Diamond Dog? Aren’t you my man?” Featherlight kisses trace the length of his neck.
Ocelot can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as he allows himself to be drawn closer, into the familiar warmth of Kazuhira’s body.
“Pulling rank on me?” he teases. “Who was it talking big about Diamond Dogs having no fixed hierarchy and all that hippie crap?”
“If I could pull rank on you, you’d earn yourself a week in the brig for every day you spend off-base.”
“Mm.The men are right. You are a tyrant.”
Kazuhira’s kisses slow, his enthusiasm fading together with the haze of sleep. Reality settles in, dragging its baggage behind it.
“The last time… the helicopter crash…” His grip tightens across Ocelot’s chest even as his head falls back onto the pillow. “Can we just… talk sometimes? Keep a line open?”
Ocelot turns within Kazuhira’s embrace until they’re lying face to face. “Alright,” he says, reaching up to cup the other man’s cheek. He can feel the tension beneath his skin, and tries to smooth it away with his thumb. “I won’t worry you this time. I promise.”
Kazuhira’s smile is strained, though he tries his damndest to pass it off as genuine; the effort doesn’t go unappreciated. “Don’t make me wait too long, yeah?”
Ocelot answers by pulling him close enough to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
—
“So what are the Soviets after in Cambodia?”
Ocelot leans against the window of the overcrowded Thai train carriage, idly gazing at the lush scenery drifting by.
“Everyone’s got their hands in the cookie jar, so to speak. Soviets, Americans, Chinese… the country’s one giant playground.”
“And you’re there to back the Vietnamese, I suppose?”
“Heh… you know I love talking current affairs with you, honey, but long-distance calls from Thailand ain’t exactly cheap”
“Oh? Weren't you- allegedly-a billionaire at one point?”
“At one point”
The train enters a tunnel unnervingly devoid of electric lighting. The man sitting beside him snaps a rolled newspaper downward, finally silencing the fly that’s been buzzing around their heads for a good twenty minutes.
“Truth is, I could care less about the situation in Cambodia. What I care about is you - what you’ll be doing out there.”
“There’s unusual activity on the border with Laos. And it’s not just the Khmer Rouge or other local militias; it’s US troops that are… funds… so… assessing… behind the…”
“Can’t hear you… line’s cutting off.”
“...you soon, Kaz”
“You take care.”
Ocelot closes his eyes as the train emerges from the tunnel, sunlight flooding the carriage.
—
The temperature in northern Cambodia is well into the hundreds; it’s a wet, oppressive heat, sweat coating Ocelot’s skin constantly from the moment he set foot in the country.
A Vietnamese military truck had picked him up at the Thai border. His driver was a wiry Russian kid who didn’t look any older than twenty-three. They had to ditch the truck before entering the jungle to meet a local man tasked with guiding them through the hostile terrain toward the banks of the Mekong River.
“You sure we can trust him?” Ocelot asks in Russian before they set off on their trek.
“Sure. No problem,” the boy replies in a monotone voice that betrays no emotion. “Ven knows the territory. Knows where the landmines are.”
“How the hell would he know that?”
A shrug. “Because he helped put them there. He was with the Khmer Rouge.”
Ocelot chances a glance at the man’s face as they walk. Unremarkable, as killers often were. “You’d trust someone like that? You know what they’ve done to their own people, don’t you?”
The young man flashes him a gummy grin; no matter how his face moves, his eyes remain dull and vacant. “Sir, I’ve heard stories like that about you. Trust has nothing to do with this.”
The comparison is distasteful, to say the least. “I’m a GRU officer and an interrogator, not a lunatic. Don’t believe everything you hear,” Ocelot chides.
“Whatever you say, sir,” the Russian replies. His bluntness, bordering on rudeness, has little to do with his age. “In the end, it’s not what you cook, it’s how you serve it, right?’
By the time they reach the small settlement at the riverbank, day has slipped into twilight. Fishermen emerge from the water carrying their casting nets ashore. Women call out to their children, beckoning them home for the evening.
“Curfew,” the Russian explains. Then he flags down an older woman approaching them cautiously and says something to her in Khmer.
Ocelot’s gaze drifts across the river while they speak; a layer of mist hangs low above the ground, blurring the distant outline of the treeline. The birdsong echoing across the water abruptly ceases, giving way to the dissonant flutter of wings. A flock of birds rises into the rapidly darkening sky.
That’s when he sees the silhouette standing by the waterline, boots half-submerged in the mud. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, and his mind fires through a thousand thoughts in rapid succession before one rises, sharp and unmistakable above the noise. His fingers slip from the grip of his gun as he whispers into the void:
“Snake?”
“Huh?” The Russian turns toward him. “Did you say something, sir?”
The vision vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and Ocelot finally remembers to breathe. It can’t be. He knows exactly where Snake is: in the hospital where Ocelot left him, walking the line between life and death. It's been one hell of a match, and Ocelot's been waiting for him for so long. Kaz has been waiting for him.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Thought I saw a snake.”
The man follows Ocelot’s gaze, puzzled. “Good luck, or soI’m told.” He gestures toward the woman. “You’re staying at her place for the night. Ven’s taking you to the dead zone in the morning.”
“The dead zone?” Ocelot frowns.
“The problem region. Serves as a base of operations for a rogue group of soldiers”
“Why call it that?”
“Ain’t meant to sustain human life, that’s why,” the young man replies with the same detached manner he uses for everything else. “Hope to see you again, Shalashaska, Sir.”
Ocelot gives him a finger-gun salute in farewell and follows the woman into her hut for the night.