Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's cold. 

I mean, yeah its Alaska, but also it's much, much colder than anything Hal imagined, and he didn't exactly pack for a bone-chilling winter. He'd left the shitshow that was Shadow Moses with a duffel of whatever he could scrap together, hope, and crescent-shaped scars he'd dug into his palm when he considered the possibility of Snake turning him down. Maybe Philanthropy was a bad idea. Maybe he'd die in stupid cold Alaska with his flashdrive of badly-pirated animes and clothes hardly suited for the harsh winter, before he even found Snake. 

Except he didn't. He'd looked Hal up and down, shivering on his doorstep and sneezing relentlessly, then nodded and let him in, ever stoic and silent. Hal didn't know if he was to bowl over from sheer astonishment or keel over on the couch from frostbite. 

In the end he did none of them because Snake offered him a warm shower and thicker (slightly) clothes, and a somewhat temporary stay in his cabin until they sorted out this Philanthropy business. And yeah, the warm showers helped and he was grateful for the clothes Snake lent him (even while his brain screamed the entire time, you're wearing Snake’s clothes oh my god oh my god they smell like ash and forests what the hell), yet even with layering and attempting to bury his frozen nose into his shirt, it's not any better. He still can't feel his toes or his fingers, at any rate.

Hal stares at his computer. Right now, they're trying to solve some administrative issues in establishing Philanthropy. Turns out, starting an NGO from scratch is not easy. Even with help from Mei Ling and Meryl, who somewhat begrudgingly agreed to help. (“Fine. Fine! I mean it's not like Snake has any issues he refuses to resolve and kicked me out of his cabin. Yes, Hal, I'll help. It's in the past, or whatever.”) Hal wasn't particularly convinced by Meryl, but more help wouldn't hurt.

“You're really sticking to the name Philanthropy?” Meryl's skeptical voice comes from Hal’s computer. It's snowing lightly outside, and there's the pattering of snow against the roof playing in the background. Hal runs a (frozen) hand through his hair and sighs.

“Yes, Meryl. Unless you can suggest something else…?”

“I like it,” Mei Ling pipes up. “It’s got a ring to it. I think it fits.” That gets a smile out of Hal, not that either of them can see it. He continues staring at his screen, frowning at the wall of text before him. There's dozens of applications and official documents he has to plow through, and he's only just started. He estimated, if he pulls a couple more all-nighters, he might just finish it. He sighs again.

"Hey, where's Snake anyway? Don't tell me he ran off to leave you to this,” Meryl suddenly switches the topic and warns. Hal can almost hear her frowning on her side of the phone. 

“No, he said he'd take a break. Though, that was maybe 15 minutes ago…” Hal’s voice trails off as he glances at the little ticking numbers at the corner of his screen. It has been a while. Then again, Hal thinks the guy needs the rest. He did almost die a couple days ago to his long-lost brother, watch his best friend get killed and get infected with a deadly disease.

So. Not a great start.

“I'll… I'll check on him,” Hal starts from his chair. Meryl makes some noise of dissent, but he goes anyway, padding off towards the kitchen. He chews on his lip as he moves throughout the cabin. Sure, Shadow Moses was unpredictable and essentially a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, but the engineer still feels responsible for some small part of it. For, you know, almost blowing him up with the automated, motile nuclear robot he designed and built. So maybe he owes Snake some alone time for that. And an apology, too. Maybe. 

He's not very good at this partnering thing, is he, is what Hal thinks as he stalks across the wooden floorboards. He's still wondering where the hell Snake is, but he spots a thin stream of smoke across the windows and immediately knows what's going on.

“Hi.” He pokes his head out the door, glancing over at where Snake is. He's leaning over the porch railings, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers and his shirt sleeves rucked dangerously up his forearms. Hal purposefully chooses not to look at that. “Thought I'd find you here.”

Snake inclines his head, before drawing a long breath from the cigarette. “Hey.” 

“Meryl and Mei Ling were asking for you,” Hal offers, and moves to stand on the porch. It's even colder there and he has no idea how Snake is wearing some thin-looking flannel right in the middle of the porch. Hal watches him exhale and exude out a heady trail of smoke. 

He's wrinkling his nose before he can catch himself, and Snake glances his way. “Not a smoker yourself, I take it?” Hal quickly drops the look but the soldier isn't frowning, just glances his way with a raised eyebrow. 

“No, I, ah, had a college roommate who smoked all the time. Indoors. Left my bedsheets smelling of ash, 24/7.” Hal admits. “I've never smoked, though. I guess it's still fine if you do it outdoors.”

“Well.” Snake taps the dying cigarette and watches as ash collects on the porch. “Hope you don't mind it too much.” Something in his voice tells Hal that he'd smoke regardless of whether he minded. “Meryl didn't like it too much.”

Oh. Hal’s not too sure how to respond to that. He knows the two had some sort of strained falling out that happened before he even arrived at Snake's doorstep but neither of them shared details with him. Not that he'd expect them to. 

Hal hesitantly moves over to Snake's side. Philanthropy is still in its early days so he's not too sure how comfortable his partner is with close contact, but if Snake's disturbed, he doesn't show it. 

“But, I still chose to smoke. I don't know—I don't know why I do that.” Snake speaks up.

“Smoke?”

“No, I mean. Do shit that pisses others off. I don't…” he huffs out a laugh, staring into the snowy forests surrounding the cabin. Hal follows his gaze, then turns to look at the man. There's a look of rugged wistfulness in his eyes. “I don't know why. I just can't hold a relationship with others. I had my huskies, and I had books and stuff to occupy myself, then Campbell had to come and… you know. Disrupt all that.” He shoots a wry smile to no one in particular.

Hal stays silent. This is (maybe?) a rare moment of vulnerability, and he doesn't want to disturb it. Doesn't want to do anything, or move in case he spooks Snake. He's still watching the man closely, when Snake turns to him.

“Do you want to have a try?” He suddenly asks. Hal's confused for a split second before he sees the cigarette. 

“Oh.” Snake's still looking at him, so he figured, why the heck not? “Sure.”

He hands him the cigarette, their fingertips brushing against each other as the cigarette rolls into Hal's hand. It's extinguished by the time he's holding it, so Snake digs out his lighter.

“Hold still,” he says and moves closer, his hand cupped around Hal’s. He's only vaguely aware of the warmth of Snake's fingers around his hand, of his chipped nails with grit caught under them. There's a sound of metal, and a spark of warmth and light between their hands, before the piece of paper lights up. 

Snake watches him intently as Hal brings the cigarette towards his lips, between his fingers as he's seen Snake do, and inhales gently. Snake has really blue eyes, he thinks. Really blue. Like …. Glacier blue. Maybe. He sees that flicker between his eyelashes, a glint in his eye as he observes Hal.

Then the smoke hits his lungs and he almost instantly regrets it as he turns to the side, coughing violently. He's immediately shrouded in a cloud of smoke, nothing like Snake's graceful manner of exhaling. There's a chuckle from Snake, and a hand on his shoulder patting his back as he hacks.

“God, that was terrible,” he says once he's come back up for air, gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air. “I don't get how you do this.”

“You get used to it,” Snake's still chuckling, and Hal suddenly becomes acutely aware of how close the two men are standing to each other. He can feel each puff of Snake's breath against the shell of his ear, and the weight of his hand on his shoulder is grounding. The cigarette still burns between them, flickering against the shadows of their faces. 

Hal looks away. Maybe it's the nicotine taking effect, but his face suddenly feels warm and flushed. “Sorry. Don't think this is for me.” He pushes the cigarette into Snake's hand, who drops it and grinds it with his heel.

“Ah, it's fine. Just wanted to see how'd you work with smoking,” Snake grins, and Hal gives him a mock frown.

“I'm glad to be working with you, Hal.” Snake tells him, his hand still resting on Hal’s shoulder. “I might be a shit partner, but. Well. I'll try.” He shrugs, and grinds the cigarette pieces even more. “Smoking, and all.”

“Yeah,” Hal looks back at him. “I know you will, Snake. I don't think I was gonna doubt that, anyway. I'm not…” he hesitates. Snake did share all that stuff about Meryl with him, but was he ready to share his own stuff?

“I'm not the best at working with others, either,” he concedes. “Back in college. Group projects weren't great. I mean, I guess it didn't help that I was a year or two younger than everyone else there, but it just, uh, wasn't great.” He winces, recalling his college days. Snake's still watching him carefully. “I know it's kinda stupid given how Philanthropy is going to be a partnership of sorts, and I'm gonna be working with you, and Meryl, and Mei Ling, but I just thought I'd let you know this first.”

Snake's gone silent, mulling over his words. Mentally, Hal wants to smack himself. Stupid, why would Snake want to hear a list of all your negative traits just as you're starting Philanthropy? What even was the point of that, he scolds himself. 

“Hal.” Snake's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks up, startled, into Snake's eyes. They truly are very blue, very piercing and he almost feels them staring into his soul. “Thanks for telling me.”

Oh. Hal scrubs the back of his neck, awkwardly. 

"I haven't worked with someone since... God, I think 1995? Not officially, at least. But I'm glad we're doing this. Together."

Hal shies away from Snake's eyes, well aware of how intently they were staring at him. Outside, the wind howls and whips through his hair. Of course he's glad, maybe even excited, to work with Snake on this. To reverse Shadow Moses too, hopefully.

“I think… I think Philanthropy's going to be just fine. Common goal, and whatnot.” Is what Snake tells him, before he moves off the porch railing and towards the door. “Anyway. I hear there's some exciting paperwork to tackle, and also if I don't get in there Meryl will be giving me an ass-kicking. So.” He holds the door open, and smiles. “Ready?”

Hal looks at Snake, and smells the scent of nicotine and ash, and thinks about Snake's azure eyes caught in the shadows of a cigarette flame. He thinks about Snake's sweatshirt that's about 2 sizes too big on him and the lingering smell of him. He thinks about Snake's palm above his. “Yeah. I think so.” 

Alaska is still cold, but Hal finds his body warm all over in a way he cannot really describe.

Chapter Text

Philanthropy is now six months in —they’re six months in, deep in various espionage missions, late night meetings and countless road trips.

And Hal tries his best to not think of just how screwed he is. 

The first two, three months were fine. Working on projects wasn't new. Arguing and bickering wasn't new. Sharing a room with someone else wasn't something new; he'd done that all through college with vaguely dismissive and inconsiderate roommates, so he was fine with Snake. Close proximity was — fine. For the most part, he'd found it okay. Bearable. Sharing a bed was maybe the only thing he'd never done before, but for practicality’s sake he'd gone along with it. 

“You can take the bed. I'll take the couch.” Snake informed him the first day he'd arrived in the Alaskan cabin. He made a move towards the couch, and Hal panicked.

“What- no, don't,” Hal sputtered. “This is your house. I can't… I can't take your bed while you take the couch. I should be on the couch, it's fine.”

Snake made an indistinguishable, non-committal hrng of someone who didn't want to argue. “Fine. Compromise. We'll share.” 

Hal blinked. “The couch?” He didn't have to look at Snake to know what kind of glare the other man was giving him. 

“No, the bed,” he said slowly like Hal was stupid. Like it was normal, just another run-of-the-mill day for him to share a bed with someone else. Which, fine, military and all, probably was. For Hal, though? Not when it basically resembled the plots of nearly half of all the fanfiction he read. And they were roommates, he thought, fingers digging into his palm.

That… wasn't exactly the outcome he was gunning for. But sure. Philanthropy was just made of new experiences for him: gathering intel, conducting secret espionage operations and sharing a bed with someone else. Absolutely peachy.

So that was settled. In the end it didn't really matter, not when Snake clocked out near 11, and Hal only really went to sleep when he was on the verge of passing out. And since Snake typically got up at a morbidly-early timing, the two never stayed in the same bed for long. 

Sometimes only as Snake was slipping out for a run would Hal stumble into bed. Snake would give him that look that Hal only learnt to translate as one that went, really? And Hal would ignore him, and drool his way into the afternoon before Snake would have the heart to wake him.

“You cannot keep doing this,” Snake would tell him as he handed Hal his glasses. 

Hal would, in return, pointedly ignore him and clumsily push his glasses back onto his face. Then as Snake's face slowly came into focus and he realised Snake was practically leaning into his side, he'd hastily slide out of bed (not blushing, he'd tell himself, because the heat rising to his ears would mean something that he'd really, really like to not get into) 

“I'm fine,” he'd tell Snake, who'd then sit back on his haunches. 

“Your eyebags say otherwise,” he'd retort, to which Hal would have kicked him if not for the fact that he'd be immediately tackled by the soldier, and they'd end up collapsing, laughing.

It's times like these that Hal knows he's absolutely, without a doubt, screwed.

And yeah, he's really not new to it. Being, what, 17 and in college meant he did stupid things, things that he regretted now but wouldn't forget. After all, wasn't that what college was for? Going for stupid frat parties and getting incredibly drunk and accidentally finding yourself in a stupid game of spin-the-bottle and making out with a classmate? Getting locked in somebody's closet, smelling faintly of dust and mothballs, and the taste of weakly diluted beer on your mouth? Having a knee pressed against your chest and the chemical smell of aftershave sticking to your neck, in your hair, in his hair?

Hal prefers to not think about those days, but on days like these he lies on the bed, thinking about the smell of mothballs and beer and aftershave, as Snake lies beside him and he feels— well. He feels something. 

For the most part he doesn't think about these days; he shoves them into the back of his mind and goes about his days; he is a busy man, after all. If there isn't some intel he's collecting or researching into, there's mission prep he has to undergo, or live backup for Snake he has to do. 

He'd considered bringing this up, briefly, to Meryl once. The only person he'd trust to not tell Snake, and only since she wasn't really on talking terms with him. But he decided against it, in the end. No point talking about something that didn't exist, was there?

They're about six months in now, and they're stumbling into the cabin, back from a mission: Hal, tired from staking out the location and driving back, and Snake (Dave, actually. Somewhere around the three month mark he'd let slip the name, and when Hal tested it out nervously, letting the unfamiliar name roll around tongue, it stuck.) exhausted from what had been a mostly-uneventful mission. 

“Finally,” Hal muttered the minute they stepped through the front door, and he only faintly catches Snake's laugh. They're less rare these days, akin to a gift bestowed upon Hal sometimes that he greedily drinks up. He turns towards Snake, but it's still dark and he hears the man padding off to the bathroom. 

“If you'd driven just a bit faster maybe we'd reach sooner,” came the man's voice from the corridor.

“Okay, just because I don't drive like a maniac, like you, doesn't mean you can insult my driving skills,” he's calling back, and he can't help but think about how much he likes how easily they slip into this banter. It's comfortable, and Hal relaxes into his usual seat in the living room. 

There's a ringing sound, and it takes him some time before he realises it's the codec. 140.96. Mei Ling. He smiles to himself in the dark and returns the call. “Mei Ling! Hi.”

“Hi Hal!” Her cheery voice comes through his ear. Once more, he marvels at how cheerful Mei Ling is, for someone who works in a pretty grim field of work. “I just wanted to check how the recent mission went. Any updates on the intel?”

Hal launches into his story. Generally it was a quite uneventful mission, without any mishaps, but no big reveals on any new Metal Gear blueprints or new intel, he finished.

“I guess that means back to square one,” he says disappointedly. The most frustrating part about running an undercover NGO would undoubtedly be the part where they had to rely on half-assed pieces of data, of unverified intel from shady sources with little to no clues.

“Hm,” Mei Ling muses on her end of the call. “Hal, have you ever heard the saying, no news is better than bad news?”

“I suppose next you'll tell me that I should be thankful that we didn't find anything fruitful?” 

“Precisely. You're getting better at this, Hal!” 

He beams as he boots up his computer. The little ping sound it makes is loud in the silent room, save for the sound of running water from the bathroom.

“What I was trying to get at, is that there's a bright side to everything. Not receiving news on Metal Gear doesn't necessarily mean you're failing at your mission. Setbacks don't push you back to square one; think of it as temporary,” Mei Ling tells him. “I know you want to eradicate Metal Gear as soon as possible, Hal. But you'll have to understand that it takes time. You'll get there!”

“Thanks, Mei Ling.” He tells her. “I can always rely on you to give me some quote suited for the occasion, huh?”

“That you can!” Her voice gets all cheery and happy again, and he can't help but smile. 

They chat for a bit; about Philanthropy, about the cabin in Alaska. Hal asks about Meryl, to which Mei Ling goes, “She's okay, last I checked. She's young but she has a lot of willpower. Campbell's been looking out for her too, much to her grievance." And Hal laughs, because he misses this. Even on Shadow Moses, he'd hardly got the chance to talk to Mei Ling but now in Philanthropy he's got all the chances he wants, to hear her little quotes and pieces of advice that somehow put him at ease. 

“Speaking off, where's Snake gone?” Hal hears the telltale click of the codec, which means she's switched to a three way call and is dialing Snake.

“Ah, he might be a bit preoccupied-”

“I'm here.”

And then Hal nearly falls out of his chair, twice. Because one, Snake’s-Dave’s voice suddenly came from behind him, and maybe it was a bad idea to sit in the dark with only the glow of his computer illuminating what little it could.

Secondly, because Dave decided to flick the light switch on, and he'd just showered.

Backtracking a little. A couple months ago, Hal had discovered just how much soldiers cared about privacy. Which was to say, in no way at all, when it came to their own. Something Hal only unfortunately realised when he'd made the mistake of walking in on Snake exercising in the little makeshift area he'd done up in their bedroom.

“Oh Christ- Snake- put some pants on, for God's sake!” He'd walked right in, immediately spun around and sputtered. 

Snake had found it incredibly amusing in ways he didn't appreciate. 

So it was probably expected that he'd try something similar again. And hence this:

Dave, right behind Hal, his hair cropped and dripping around his eyes, with a towel loosely slung across the jut of his hip and water droplets sliding down the planes of his body. It also really, really didn't help that the poor lighting accentuated everything; muscles, that sharp look in his eyes, ropey scar tissue coiling across his arms and back. 

Hal made an indistinguishable, strangled sound.

“...Hal? Snake? You guys there?”

Dave's still looking at him with that look that he can't quite identify, but before he knows it, Hal's hand is on Dave's, nails scraping the side of his forearm, and almost trance-like, he traces the scar. White raised tissue that’s firm below the pad of his finger, that leaves a trail of goosebumps on Dave's skin in his wake. His breathing is heavy, uncertain, but Hal continues. Dave's skin is cold against his, his arm muscles tensed like he's not too sure what's going on. 

Hal reaches the indent of his elbow, right where the scar ends. Distantly, he wonders when and how it appeared there, and Dave's still staring, staring like he's daring Hal to do something. Those piercing blue eyes, again, staring into the depths of his soul. Hal swallows, avoiding Dave’s parted mouth, like he’s about to say something, and maybe Hal wants to hear what—

Then he thinks about the cupboard, the smell of mothballs and beer, and rips his hand away like it was burning. He swears Dave looks almost disappointed.

“I'm here, Mei Ling,” he tears his eyes away from Hal, and his voice is a little huskier than usual. Hal looks away. “It's- we're fine.”

“Okay,” her voice comes over the codec, hesitant. “Anyway! Otacon was just filling me in the details on your mission. You're okay, Snake? No injuries?”

Hal drifts off as Snake rattles off some details he noticed, and an inventory check. He's all focused, wrestling on a shirt hanging on the arm of the couch over his head as he talks, and all Hal can think is that he's so incredibly screwed because his eyes are fixated on the slope of his nose, the slant of his mouth and the blue of his iris. On the strength of his arm, the flex of tendons in his wrist. Of the heaviness lining his eyes as he watched Hal touch his arm, his heavy breathing. Of whatever the hell it was they were doing, this weird sort of dare to see who would crack first. (Privately, Hal thinks about that scar, and how badly he wants to know about it. How Snake got it, where he got it. He wants to map out the history of scars all over his body, hear their stories spill from the man's mouth.)

He closes his eyes. For God's sake. This is Solid Snake he's talking about. He doesn't pine, doesn't do relationships, doesn't do whatever the hell Hal is hoping for. Besides, this feels intrusive. But God, can he hope.

“-you need?” Snake's nudging him and he shakes out of it, eyes flying open. “Otacon. Any supplies you need? Mei Ling says she can get a supplier some time this week, given we stay here for a bit more.”

“Ah. Um. Maybe a new razor? The current ones are, kinda blunt. I think that's it.” He purposefully chooses to not meet Snake's eyes.

“Okay! That's manageable. I also might have some new intel, so expect a meeting this week too. I'll keep you guys updated, and I'll inform Meryl too. You guys keep safe, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mei Ling,” Snake replies, and Hal makes a murmur of assent. Mei Ling gives a pleased hum, before she clicks off. 

The house is silent again.

“... You alright, Hal?” Snake asks. There's still water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders and back, forming dark patches on his ratty shirt. 

“Yeah.” Hal finally looks at him, and his breath catches, just a little. Snake's staring back at him, and his hair is sort of falling over his eye in the way it does when he wears his bandana, and there's a towel slung over his shoulder and it's just so— so domestic, so homely, and really, some time along their road trips and late night hauls for groceries, Hal felt something in his ribcage, growing and festering, and he's tried his best to ignore it. “I'm good. Fine.”

"You sure?" Snake asks quietly. Crickets chirp, somewhere outside. Hal swallows.

"Yeah." Because what else is there to say, really?

Snake leaves the room, and Hal thinks about that cupboard with the smell of beer and mothballs.

What was it Mei Ling had said? No news being good news? Well. No change in this relationship would be- would be good. Better this, than any other scenario where Hal betrays Snake, and compromises their missions, or—

Hal breathes in, out, in, and it feels like there are spikes in his chest. The pounding in his ribcage starts hurting.

Chapter Text

Hal knows what kind of person Snake was. 

Or, at least, what he thought he was. 

They're maybe a year into Philanthropy, when his world view changes. 

It's April, and the sun is as bright as it is hot when the two of them pack up from their old apartment and to their newly-procured one that Mei Ling had eagerly dialled a while ago to tell them of. 

“This one took a bit more digging to find, but I think it's a better location for you guys to dig around the new site.” There came the sound of keyboard tapping, during which Hal looked over to where Snake was, nursing a can of beer. He was tracing the condensation on it distractedly, but he caught Hal's eye and gave him a nod. Hal cracked a tiny smile.

“Here, I'm sending the coordinates over. Some tiny place in Newark, not too far off but still enough closed-off that you guys should be safe from prying eyes.” Hal gave the map and quick sweep; it was a pretty good location. The only issue was having to move again. He eyes the half-opened boxes on the floor beside his ankle; they'd hardly finished unpacking since arriving here two, three weeks ago, and now they're having to move again. 

But it's not just him he's worried about. He casts a glance at Snake, who's also, coincidentally, staring at the cardboard boxes. 

Hal still feels pretty bad about the first time they moved, sometime two months maybe, after Philanthropy had been established. Snake had to leave his cabin behind—though, admittedly, the man didn't seem too attached to it. He'd barely stored anything there. If anything, he was probably most wistful at the fact that he'd had to leave the huskies behind.

Hal had followed him to some shed nearer a town, watching Snake's huskies bound behind him until they reached, and an old man who seemed to recognise Snake nodded and shook his hand. I'm not sure how long, Snake had said as he passed over the dogs’ leashes to the man. Just…keep them safe. Please. Then, kneeling on the ground, Hal watched as Snake cupped each dog's face in his gloved hands, and ruffled their fur. Bye, Delta. Bye, Charlie. He marvelled at how Snake somehow knew to distinguish each, with names that they responded to with a lick from his chin to his nose. Then he watched as Snake, whom he'd seen drowning his sorrows with beer and cigarettes and wore this tragic frown on his face, laughed and smiled and jostled with them. 

Later, when they walked back to the cabin, Hal had whispered some semblance of sorry, because he didn't really know what to say, after he'd seen Dave's face split into a smile, his eyes creased with the closest thing to joy. Dave had stopped there, right then, in the middle of the tundra. The wind whipped around them, pushing their jackets and hair in a whirl, and he'd shoved his hands in his army jacket and given Hal this slow, bittersweet smile, one where grief flickered in his eyes. 

“It's okay.” He'd said. “They're in good hands.” But even as he said it, Hal could hear the doubt and trepidation in his voice. “It's okay.” The wind howled around then. They dropped the subject, after that, and headed back to pack whatever remaining meagre items Snake had. 

Hal wasn't sure about what to think of it himself, but he hasn't brought it up to Snake either. That was when neither of them had shared much with either, hadn't made that milestone in their partnership yet.

But Hal wasn't a stranger to moving either. 

Once his father died, he'd packed up everything he had and moved to college. As they trudged through the snow; as they packed their things into boxes labelled ‘NEWARK’, he thought about it.  

He'd looked back, of course he'd looked back; E.E. was still there, clutching Julie's pant leg and screaming at him. Hal didn't have the heart to turn back. He'd just known that he had to leave, to pack up and move far away from that goddamned house and never return. 

“Don't do this, Hal,” Julie had hissed at him, watching, sneering as he lugged his suitcases down the stairs. The handle kept slipping beneath his sweaty palms. “Running away from this doesn't solve shit.”

He'd purposefully ignored her, nudging his way around to reach the front door, when she'd suddenly stepped in front of him. 

“Think about Emma, Hal.” And then he'd flinched, even as he was acutely aware that somewhere at the top of the staircase landing, E.E was pressing her cheek against the wooden banister, listening to this exchange. It wasn't lost on him how she'd screamed herself hoarse, when she found out he was leaving for good. How she'd fought against Julie, clawed at his arms and sobbed. How some piece of him had died along with her cries when Julie shut her upstairs.

“You don't think this is selfish of you, leaving your sister behind?” Julie continues. “Thinking that running away magically removes all your issues, all your problems? You're exactly like your father, you know that? Always running, sacrificing a piece of yourself just to evade things.”

That jolts Hal. He stares at Julie, at her cold eyes and manicured fingers as they brush against his hand. His hair raises in her wake. 

“No,” he says softly. Hal takes her hand and pushes it away, to which Julie looks surprised. He never really did find the strength to do that, all those times. “No. You're wrong. I'm not my dad.”

He'd snatched his things and slipped out the front door. Julie lunged at him, of course she did, but he was faster. He'd always been faster. 

He made it to the pavement, where the taxi he'd hailed was waiting, loaded his things and headed to the airport. He didn't look back. He swore he wouldn't. He'd leave that part of him behind, start anew. (He'd miss E.E. Of course he would. Some parts of you, you don't ever get back. He'd recognised that much.)

He'd recognised that look of grief in Snake's eyes. It's the exact one he saw in his own, the first day he stepped in his dorm and faced himself in that little mirror hanging in the toilet. Eyes, dark with fatigue and the emotions of loss, of leaving some part of your life, of yourself behind. Being forced to reconcile with that, he knew, was the worst. But he'd seen it in Snake's eyes then across Alaska away from his huskies, and he saw it now as the two of them made to pack up their belongings for Newark.

Hey, he nudges his partner across the computer. You okay? He mouthed. Snake looked a bit startled, but he nodded and gave him a thumbs up and a smile. Hal watches the little crescent scar running across his lip, and thinks about pressing his thumb against it, and watching the sadness in his eyes dissipate. 

At this point it's been a while already. A while since Hal first watched Snake's face split in a laugh, or the stars glimmer in his eyes and felt that little skip in his heart beat. 

He's not stupid, of course. He knows what this means. He's known, for a while, what this means. It's fine. It's normal, he tells himself every single time, to be in close proximity and feel this way. 

Never mind that Hal had seen Dave at his most vulnerable, shivering and trembling in their van after a particularly dangerous mission. Never mind that Hal thinks regularly about those moments spent in the bathroom, kneeling between his legs and cleaning a wound, setting a bone, feeling Dave's fingers dig into his shoulder in pain, in grief. Never mind how desperately he wanted to tilt his head in those moments and press his cheek against Dave's arm, to hear his heartbeat through the curve of his wrist. Never mind that Hal wanted to relive every single moment between them, whether it was something mundane like having breakfast or buying groceries.

Never mind that Hal thought Dave was the smartest, most resourceful person in the world, with his fiery determination and sharp wit. The only person he knew that would carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and still find time to walk his huskies, to find a sense of justice and purpose in this broken world and carry through with it. Never mind that Hal wanted to personally hunt down anyone who'd made Dave think otherwise, who'd purposely drag him down and who'd doubt him, who'd cause his face to bear the scars of heavy, drowning grief.

In the end, it simply doesn't matter because Snake simply doesn't feel that way, he doesn't—doesn’t carry around that same ache. Hal's been given so much, too much; he cannot possibly demand and desire that much of anyone, much less Snake. He can want, and he can pine away wastedly from afar, but he cannot—will not throw it all away, screw everything up with his stupid feelings and desires. He can't- God, he hates this, hates how his heart flutters as he glances at Dave's side profile staring at the screen- can't expect anything out of this, can't impose anything. 

 So he'd buried it- this, whatever it is, in his heart, kept his heart rate as steady as possible every time Snake's face approached his, and opted to admire from afar instead. He's comfortable this way. No one gets hurt, this way. 

“So! Now that's over. You guys should probably start packing, I guess,” Mei Ling's voice trilled, breaking Hal out of his trance. He broke his glance away from Snake, cleared his throat. He feels the beginning of a splotchy flush climb up his throat.

Snake looks at the screen and yawns, stretching his arms. Hal tries his best not to look at the dusting of hair on the sliver of skin as his shirt rode up. “Yeah, we got that. Thanks again, Mei Ling. We'll update you once we get there. Or if anything significant happens along the way.” 

“Thanks, Mei Ling.” Hal echoes woefully. “Guess we should start now,” he tells Snake too. He gives a wry grin in exchange, which Hal savours very much. 

The two of them are familiar with the drill by now, standing up to gather clothes, hygiene products, leftover food and other necessities into boxes and luggages. Mei Ling lingers on call though, (unhelpfully) providing tidbits of information. 

“Might be a stretch,” Snake tells him as he shoves in a shirt. “But maybe you don't need to bring along your figurines everywhere you go?”

“These are limited edition, Snake!” Hal cries as he cradles them in his hand. “You wouldn't understand. I got these when I was, what, seventeen? It's pretty much the only thing I have left from Shadow Moses.” It's true; he'd purchased these Gundams the minute he'd scrapped the money together and proudly displayed them in his dorm room. They'd followed him to Shadow Moses, too.

He places them gently in the box, before he realises Snake is staring at him. “Hm.” 

The flash of sudden grief in his eyes is fast, but Hal catches it. He pauses. 

But when he glances back at Snake, it's gone. Hidden somewhere behind his stoic facade, no doubt. 

“You’re such a nerd, Hal,” Snake says instead, clearing his throat and shaking his head. 

God, it's unfair for anyone to look that good while saying that, while kneeling amongst dusty boxes in jeans. But Dave pulls it off, damningly so. And, God—it’s not just how he looks, but the curve of his mouth when he says Hal’s name, how he can make being called a ‘nerd’ sound so endearing. 

But Hal can't say any of that, so instead he makes a not so child-friendly gesture that Snake simply laughs at. 

Mei Ling continues chastising the two of them, until they've finished packing and head off on the road, and Hal tries not to think about how badly he wants to kiss the grief off Snake's fingertips like a starved man so he'll never have that look again in his eyes.

                                           —————

“Hal.” Snake nudges him, and he starts from his drifting position. 

They've been on the road for about three hours by now, and Hal was drifting off in the passenger's seat. In between slides of conversation, restless naps and glances Hal snuck at his partner when he thought he wasn't looking, they'd settled into a comfortable silence, with Snake staring at the road ahead and Hal leaning against the window. Rolls of barren land sweep past the van, and he shifts uncomfortably as the vehicle jostles every few seconds.

“Yeah?”

“We’re reaching a gas station soon. We'll stop off here, to restock and rest a bit. Okay?” 

Hal hums in agreement, grateful that they finally got to rest. He'd been in the same position the whole time, listening to the same few generic songs play on whatever radio station they could find, and his lower half was numb all over. 

They finally pull over. By the time Snake's got the car plugged into the gasoline pump, Hal's walking back, holding a plastic bag that he shakes at Snake.

“I bought some snacks, water and batteries,” Hal says as he fishes out a granola bar. He hates it, it tastes like cardboard and everything bland but both of them know they need to get all the nutrients they can. (“Better than rations at least,” Snake grumbled as he bit into one.)

Snake's still looking at him expectantly, so Hal rolls his eyes and digs through the bag. 

“Yes, I did get you your cigarettes. Catch.” He tosses it at him, and Snake neatly catches it.

“Thanks.” And he's immediately lighting one, shooting Hal a heart-fluttering grin as the smell of smoke fills the parking space. 

He's long given up on chastising Snake for his smoking habit. The man doesn't listen anyway, no matter how many times he berates him, or attempts to shoot him pointed looks. Snake just glares back with that flat look of his, immediately shutting him down. Much to Hal's chagrin. 

That doesn't mean he won't complain, though. “You smoke too much,” Hal says as he leans against the car hood, pushing the plastic bag between them. “Can't be good for you.”

Dave takes a long draw, then angles his head away as he exhales. At first Hal thinks it's to be considerate, but then he speaks up. “Doesn't matter if you're going to die soon, does it?”

Hal watches the back of Dave's head, the workings of his jaw as he moves to take a drag, of his forearms flexing as they lean against the hood too. 

“It doesn't mean you should grant yourself an early death either,” Hal finishes lamely. The granola suddenly tastes weird in his mouth. 

He's not too sure what’s an appropriate response to that. Even as he says it he feels something eating away at his heart. How do you comfort a dying man? 

Snake doesn't turn to look at him, simply leans against the car and smokes. The wind carries it away, along with Hal's thoughts.

He thinks back to Shadow Moses, the wind slipping against his frozen cheek and the ring of the codec as Naomi tells Snake to “live anyway, despite FOXDIE” and how unfair that is, how ridiculous it is to tell a man tilting on the verge of death to just “continue living” and to do his best. Hal had looked up at Snake then, watched the clench of his jaw as Naomi spoke, and Hal just felt so—indignant, on his behalf. Snake didn't need his pity, but he felt something else, maybe anger, at how he'd just been handed this death sentence of a life.

The subsequent few weeks in Dave's cabin, Hal thought about that. A lot. He'd look at Dave, hunched over the couch, staring at news reports of Shadow Moses, and he'd think about it. I'm the dying shadow of a man, he'd said once jokingly, but Hal caught that glimpse of grief in his eyes. 

Grief. It's always grief. Hal feels it linger in their doorways, in the smoke exuding from Dave's mouth and his own cold breaths. In his gaze, as he stares at the silhouette of Dave's back and he aches all over for something he can't get, he shouldn't want to get.

But Hal has seen how Dave persists. Despite the grief, despite FOXDIE, despite everything. Sometimes life's a bitch, he once told Hal, his laughs light and breathy in Alaskan air. But then it's a bitch and you keep going. He'd punctuated it with a long suck on his cigarette, and Hal thinks that's roughly when he—well. Started feeling that deep pit in his stomach, the one that hadn't gone away for a year. When he'd started wanting to reach out, and press the pads of his fingertips to Dave's warm skin.

Hal thinks about these screenshots of Philanthropy, of his partner's extreme strength and love and so, so much hope. How brilliant, how smart, how kind he is, that despite (despite, regardless, maybe in spite of) everything, he'd remain as Snake, as Dave—a man who named each of his dogs, who loved sledding, who had a heart of gold, an eye for details, nick-ridden persistence, and a way with words that made Hal laugh. It's a truth grounded in evidence, in deep laughs and fleeting touches between them. Hal knows it—no, he feels it, somewhere between his ribs and his sternum, aching and heavy.

It's what, he realises with horror, nearly propels him forward, the words steady on his lips, as he almost mouths something along the lines of I love you. And that's just ridiculous because he doesn't love Dave, doesn't feel anything more than he should towards his partner, his best friend, and harbouring any thoughts besides that is stupid. Admiring the man and his values is one thing, but this is another line he cannot cross. He doesn't—he shouldn't. 

“When I was sixteen.” He finds himself blurting instead, because he doesn't want to entertain that thought any more. Snake doesn't turn around to look at him, so Hal continues.

“When I was sixteen, I ran away from home. I didn't really have a plan in mind, I just knew I wanted to get away, fast. I left my house, my family—” He swallows. “Any sense of security, there. I had a scholarship to study in college, but I spent those first few weeks thinking I was going to die. Maybe a bit dramatic, but I was pretty sheltered as a kid. But I didn't die. Then, last year, the whole Shadow Moses thing happened.” At that, Dave lifts his head. Hal continues rambling.

“And I thought, that was probably when I would die. When Liquid started destroying everything, and I was just in the lab, and the wall caved in and—I thought maybe that was the end for me. I’d die at the hands of my own creation. But, I didn't. Again. This time, not so out of sheer luck, but because you found me. Honestly, I was sure I'd die stuck there, but then I didn't.

“Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is, I was very ready to just run away. Just… leave everything behind. Whether that was by starting anew or dying, it didn't really matter. I don't— I'm not the most reliable person when it comes to advice, nor should I dictate what you do,” Hal says slowly, watching Dave's face closely. It's blank, completely unreadable. “But I'm very thankful for what you did. I'd like to think that I've at least found what I want to do with my life, for now. Chasing Metal Gears, Philanthropy, the lot of it.” 

You gave me hope to live, is what he hopes Dave understands. You came back for me, when I didn't deserve it. Even if he's a dead man walking, he can still do good. And he does, from everything Hal has seen him do. 

Dave's still studying him intently, the cigarette wilting between his fingers as Hal talks. At first he doesn't say anything, and Hal starts worrying that he massively fucked up and crossed some unspoken boundary, but then Dave drops the cigarette and crushes it with his heel.

“I spent a lot of time running away, too,” is what Hal doesn't expect him to say. He starts shuffling and stuffing things back into the plastic bag, and moves to pull the pump out of the van. “I… spent a lot of time, moving in and out of foster homes. Never knowing why I was being transferred, what I was doing wrong.”

He pulls the car door open and shoves the bag inside. “When the opportunity came, I joined the military. It was a stupid decision, but I just didn't want to remain in the system anymore.” He wanders off to pay at the kiosk and returns. 

“It was shit, of course,” as he slides into the driver's seat. Hal gets in beside him, still waiting, listening, watching the flutter of his eyes. “But it was a good escape. It lasted for a while, then the whole clone thing came to light. And I fled, again. To Alaska, this time. The only place I could think of where I was positive no one would find me.” The engine turns on, a low rumble in the background. “I was going to drink myself to death. That was the plan. I would have carried through with it, but Campbell- Colonel, found me.”

Hal feels that little startle in his heart, at Dave sharing so much about his life with him. But he continues to watch, transfixed, as Dave pulls the car out of the station. 

“I've—I've made a lot of mistakes. Fucked up where I shouldn't have, where I should have. I regret a lot of it. Christ, if you'd known the shit I did back in the military.” He huffs out a laugh. “Saving you back there isn't one of them, though.”

“I might- I might die soon. I don't know. Dr Hunter- Naomi didn't specify a date. But,” and he gives Hal a wry smile at this. “I do know I want to do this. Philanthropy and all. For an undefined amount of time. To do something with my life, I guess, to make up for everything else.”

It's barely visible, but his knuckles tighten around the wheel, very slightly. Hal's heart does a little flip, pitter-patters around his mouth. The van rumbles on the road, and he watches as the sunlight hits the side of Dave's face, illuminates his eyes and the slope of his nose and that nick on his cheek, and he has to look away, exhale to get a grip on himself. There's grief, but also hope within his eyes, that doesn't escape Hal's notice.

“Thank you,” he tells Dave cautiously. “For telling me that.” He's well aware of how difficult it is for his partner to open up; prying information out of him was always nearly impossible. For him to just bare himself like that, would be difficult. 

The fact-of-the-matter is that his heart is rising hopefully in a way it shouldn't, singing about how Dave trusts you and there's a small stab of happiness within him that he quells immediately. Having someone as stoic, as closed-off and quiet as him speaking so openly to Hal just feels—feels comforting. 

He's fully expecting Dave to give him a nod, maybe a smile if he's feeling nice about it. Instead, he turns to look at Hal. The car doesn't slow down, not really, although time seems to pause as a flush starts blooming across his face. He's about to point out that maybe you should keep your eyes on the road, it's really not safe-

“You have,” Dave rasps in a way that sends a jolt down Hal's spine. “Really nice eyes. You know that?”

“What?” Hal croaks, when the words finally reach his throat.

“When the sun hits them,” Dave replies, already turning back to the wheel as he waves a hand in Hal's direction. “They're a nice shade of brown. You also really have a way with words, by the way. Inspirational, and all that. I can admire that. Really, I should be thanking you. Also, you worry too much.”

Hal blinks.

“I'll try my best to stay alive for Philantropy, amongst other things. At the very least, I can promise you that. Hal and Dave, right?” His hand somehow makes its way to Hal's shoulder, not pulling or pushing but just resting there, comforting and heavy, and Hal finds his heart jackknifing about when Dave, still staring at the road, cracks a grin.

Hal and Dave.

The wind hits the window pane, and the radio plays on tinnily in the background. Dave's hand slides away, and Hal almost immediately starts missing its warmth. 

Dave and Hal.

Jesus.

He's so, so fucked.

Chapter Text

The door slams shut and for the third time this day, Hal very much feels like tearing his hair out.

“—and I'd rather you not stay there breathing down my neck, Hal!” 

“You call that breathing down your neck? Looking out for your partner?” Hal grips the edge of the door, ignoring the flaking paint and seethes back. It's hard to ignore the anger coursing through him now, made worse by the remnants of adrenaline and caffeine in his veins. 

“Oh, so now we're labelling this as, what, “looking out for partners”?” Dave replies sourly as he flicks the lights on, and the two of them collectively wince as light floods their vision after driving in the dark for hours. “Even you know that's stupid. You're in over your head, Emmerich.”

Hal lets go of the door and kicks off his muddy sneakers, trying his best to ignore whatever Snake just said. Of how he'd dropped back to last names and how much it stung.

The mission at SeaCrest was basically a complete bust. They'd had good, maybe even brilliant intel sourced by Mei Ling, an excellent working blueprint and plan, and even then they'd somehow screwed it all up. No new data, no information on the Metal Gear currently being built there, and a search team on their heels. Which basically meant their chances of getting back into the facility was going to be close to zero, land lookouts were going to be upped and their data security was to be tightened, something Hal foresaw himself taking at least two to three more days to bypass. Which he was absolutely dreading, given how he'd practically been surviving on sheer willpower for the past week. He had limits too, thank you very much.

Which led them back to this. Two years into Philanthropy, and their very first big argument. Sure, they'd had their fair share of small ones, petty squabbles over whether Snake was smoking too much, or who was doing the dishes, but never quite like this. Not where Hal clenched his fists so hard his fingers hurt, or where Snake sneered at him like that.

It was inevitable, anyway. 

“If I don't look out for you as a partner, what the hell am I doing, then?” 

“You're allowing the mission to be carried out! That should be your very first priority, no matter what. You'd think two years would have drilled that into you, no?” Snake snarls as he pads into the living room, ripping his gloves off and tossing them, something that sets off another spark of anger in Hal because he knows Snake knows that he absolutely dislikes finding gear left around. The meticulous streak in him drives him to tidy it up.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Snake,” Hal says through gritted teeth as he picks the gloves up. “Everything was under control. Going to plan. Mei Ling prepared for it, I had the cameras, you knew the map,” his voice rises as he ticks off his fingers. “You know that, goddamn it!” 

“I'm sorry, you call ‘having people on the hunt for us’ going to plan now?” Snake undoes the cuffs while walking, leaving them clattering on the floor. His voice is laced, dripping with venom now. “Maybe you should reconsider this—”

“—maybe you should reconsider your memory, considering you were almost killed—”

“Considering I was almost killed. I wouldn't have been,” the sodden and worn-out vest, deflating between them, and a twist in Hal's gut, “if you'd kept your nose out of it.”

“And I was supposed to stand the possibility of you dying.” 

Hal's tone is flat, unquestioning and exhausted, and promptly causes Snake to pause in his steps, fingers still gripping his shoulder pads. Good. Let him hurt, Hal thinks deliriously with a flare of malice. Let him actually, for once, think about this. He had enough time to think about it in their hour-long drive back.

“They would've come for you. The guards. You know that, Snake.” At the mention of his name, his face darkens, and then he's kicking off his boots. They tumble into the wall, and Hal nearly trips over them. He has to hold back a sigh at the black mark they leave behind. Mei Ling will chew them out over that. “I could've come for you. Things could have still gone according to plan. I'd rather you were alive and the mission failed, then you dead and the mission still failed.”

There's the clicking of straps and buckles as Snake works at them, circling his arm, his neck. “Don't pity me, Otacon,” he snarls, and they're back to the offensive again, shackles raised and teeth bared. 

Lightning crackles from outside, and Hal almost laughs at how fitting it is; that the two men are staring at each other now, rainwater collecting in puddles around their feet and palpable tension between them. His body temperature is rapidly dropping as the rainwater clinging to him evaporates, and he can feel his teeth chatter.

“Look, we’re both tired and drenched, let’s not do this now. We can settle this tomorrow.” Snake eventually turns away and heads for the bathroom, peeling off his suit as he goes so eventually he’s half naked, the fabric bunched up around his waist, unbuckled straps hanging off him.

“Right, absolutely typical of you. Just do whatever you do best, avoiding things, right?” 

Hal regrets it the minute his words leave his mouth.

Snake's utility belt hits the floor as he steps over it, towards Hal. His mouth is set in a thin line. “Say that again,” he hisses. “Go on.”

Hal takes a step back. “You know full well what I mean, Snake.” He tries his best to keep the flutter out of his voice, but it's hard to do so with someone towering over him. “You’d rather be in control than be part of something, so you back out the minute things don't go your way.”

“That's rich, coming from you,” Snake sneers, as Hal is starting to realise that picking a fight with somebody who looks like they could emancipate you on the spot with a single withering glance isn't his brightest idea. “When you're the one obsessed with pre-mission planning, until you spend days in front of your screen living off ramen and soda.”

Okay, that's just low. “I'm not obsessed,” Hal snaps. “I’ll be damned before I let my partner go out onto the field, where they could most definitely die, without any prep. I've nearly seen you die, Snake. I would really rather—”

“Dave.”

Hal closes his mouth and blinks owlishly. What? “What?”

“It's Dave.” He's stripped down now, save for his leggings and fastenings for the upper portion, and the glow of the bathroom between them is silencing, eerie. Dave's already one foot in, the other pressed against the doorframe like he's depending on it to hold him upright. “You keep calling me Snake, like—like we're back in the field, and I'm dying and—” he runs a hand through his hair frustratedly and rips the bandana off. “I'm not. Okay?” The incriminating piece of fabric flutters to the ground, drawing a line between them.

Hal looks at him, stunned but also vibrating with anger and confusion. His whole body feels tense, like a taut string about to snap. 

The lightbulb hums angrily as Hal stares at him. From here, up close with his chin tilted towards Dave and Dave's angling downwards at him, he can see a lot more. There's that godamned furrow in his brow, carrying the weight of anger and frustration and complete fatigue; the set line of his mouth, grimly layered with scars and scabs. But it's also more than that; Hal swears he can almost reach out and feel the tenseness in Dave's jaw, that overwhelming and conflicting brokenness in his blue eyes. He's close now, close enough that if he were to exhale their breaths would mingle and he could lean forward and—

“I don't get what you're talking about.” He opts for the safer choice eventually. The dull throb of wrath stagnates in his stomach, pooling and collecting.

Sna-Dave bites back. “You don't get to call me that, not when you—” he stops abruptly, like he's catching himself right before, biting his lip so hard it might bleed. Subconsciously, Hal finds himself watching that sharp incisor dig into the lip, watching the furrow in the man's brows, and feels his eyes flutter as he imagines pressing his mouth to the column of his neck and listening to the thrum of his heartbeat, angry and soft against his lips. He feels so, so angry at that moment, frustrated at how Dave never seems to listen to him or attempts to rationalise anything before he leaps ahead, but also he hates himself for this, for shouting at him and for picturing what Dave would look like against him, his brows taut and his mouth hot and wet against his own. And Hal can't even begin to put any of these thoughts into words, which is what makes all of it so— frustrating.

No one says anything for a while. Hal's heart is racing so loudly he doesn't think he'll be able to hear anything anyway. Not when I what? Is what he wants to ask, but doesn't. 

The beginnings of tears well in his eyes. Fuck. He hastily blinks them away. This is absolutely not the time for an anger, caffeine and adrenaline-fuelled fight. Neither of them are cut out for this. Especially Dave, who's slouching against the doorframe and has tiredness lining his eyes. Who's looking at him with regret and frustration and something—something else, simmering below the surface that Hal can't identify except for the fact that he'd seen it before. When he'd first sewn up Dave's gun wound in the silence of the bathroom in the cabin—their cabin, in Alaska, maybe. Or that time in the winter when he'd shaken Dave out of a nightmare, thrashing and sweating, and hugged him, told him to go back to sleep. 

Most likely, it was when, barely four hours ago, he made that stupid decision to climb out of the van, run into the data centre equipped with nothing but Mei Ling on the codec and a SOCOM with barely three bullets. And when he'd run headfirst into the room where Dave was, grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the place, just nearly leaving before the alarm was pulled and guards swarmed the place. They ran like hell, down the corridors, and Hal can still distinctly remember the details; the fluorescent lights flickering, the thudding of their feet against marble, the rough callouses of Dave's pressing against his palm, the warmth of it, his panting against Hal's ear—silent and constrained, but well aware of how close he was to him—and the tremble of his heartbeat imprinted on Hal's wrist. 

All Hal can think of is how he needs to set this right. How to let Dave know that he’d entered the database in a flurry of panic, Dave Dave Dave going off in his head because that was all he could think of then. That he hates himself for fucking this up, misplacing his partners trust in him when he was supposed to keep him safe, to have his back. 

“Dave,” he suddenly breaks the silence and says, lowly, because he can't stand it anymore. “I did all that precisely because I didn't want you to die. You're my partner in this. Philanthropy was birthed from this partnership, this decision to do it. Together. You agreed to it.” He observes the little exhale Dave makes, how he shifts his weight against the doorframe. All these little habits he's picked up in the years they've worked together, that he knows like the back of his hand.

“I know you wanted to carry out the mission through and through. But the mission was already flawed from the start. We didn't account for the time taken to actually break in. You'd have been caught, and then who knows what else,” There's the telltale flutter of Dave's eyelashes, the twitch of his mouth. Hal's been well acquainted with these nervous ticks. He wants to “And I've been there to see what happens when you get caught.” He doesn't say it but he knows both of them are thinking, once more like a bad habit, of Shadow Moses and the sinister smile of Ocelot. 

Dave still has the burn scars to prove it. With the bathroom lights illuminating his figure, his scars are made more prominent now, too. Scars that Hal never really got to carefully and properly inspect in the dark of a room or the back of the van. Scars that he can now see, clear as day, that crawl around his entire torso, his arms, unfurling like tentacles onto his collar and neck. 

The burn scars are the worst. It's all marred, raw, puckered tissue like craters in the moon, shiny and raw and so obviously still there, encircling his wrists and rotator cuff and neck tissue. And he knows Dave must be thinking about them too, as his hand absentmindedly drifts to stroke them.

The body keeps score, Hal thinks. 

The atmosphere in the air has shifted. It's still charged, but less so with seething rage and with something else— a pensive energy that's tense nevertheless. He's swaying slightly now, letting the night and exhaustion take its toll. But he wants to be here. Not arguing with Dave, but to talk to him, stay by his side and offer words of comfort when possible. 

Suddenly, a hand slides under his jaw to cup it, and Hal starts, nearly falling over himself.

“Hal,” Dave's saying brokenly, gazing at Hal like he's made of stars and sorrow and love and everything good in this universe, his palm slick and warm against his cheek. Distantly, Hal tries to recall the last time he shaved— is there stubble on his cheek?— but finds he can't really think under these circumstances because Dave's mouth fits around his name so perfectly, like the last jigsaw piece slotting in a puzzle and there's an overwhelming desire churning in his gut; he's sucking in a breath at how Dave sounds, like a prayer falling apart, and—

“Dave,” he says when he sees it. And it's really hard not to. “Christ, you're bleeding.”

To his credit, Dave doesn't panic. He slides his hand away, and wordlessly feels at his hip. His fingers come away wet with darkness. 

A small selfish part of Hal feels dismayed at breaking the moment, but it's overcome by the feeling of relief that he also doesn't have to go through it— doesn't have to go through any sort of inevitable heartbreak, doesn't have to hear the remainder of Dave's sentence. 

Then the sour, sudden jolt of panic at blood sets him in place, and all remaining thoughts fly out the window.

Dave doesn't protest when Hal hauls him into the bathroom and pushes him onto the countertop, nor when he pushes the remaining of the jumpsuit down to his thighs, revealing a bloody mass of flesh, warm and too fresh for his liking and promptly starts panicking.

“Shit. It's bad, Dave,” Hal's breathing starts getting a little shallow. Looking back, he doesn't know how he didn't see it before. Too distracted by their argument probably, he thinks bitterly. 

Later, he'll find the splashes of blood on the tile leading to the bathroom, hidden by the shadows of night and he'll grow faint from the bleach fumes while scrubbing it out, and from the idea of Dave nursing an open wound, bleeding while Hal shouted at him.

For now though, he has work to do. He rolls his proverbial sleeves up and rummages about in the cupboards. They've always kept a first-aid kit in the bathroom of every safe house they've been in for easy access so Hal finds it quickly. Dave's watching him while he does so, quietly.

It's a terrible mottled mess under the suit. Jewelled flesh, with dark hardened edges already setting in. Hal curses, then sets to cleaning it. He goes over the motions in fluid dissociation, letting his hands take over where his brain doesn't want to. 

He's close enough that he doesn't miss the hitch in Dave's breath as he dabs antiseptic over, or the twitch in his fingers when the bullet is sliced out of his skin. Thank god it was a low-velocity injury, Hal thinks. The bullet was nowhere near any vital organs or bones, merely penetrating the flesh shallowly. Still, it doesn't make it anymore gruesome as he pries the metal away from fused skin.

Snake. Dave. His partner, his friend, who was currently hunched over the counter, fingers gripping the marble so tightly it might crack. Who was bleeding profusely from his hip, who had let himself bleed while Hal stood there and shouted at and accused him. Who was looking at Hal with a parted mouth, dilated eyes. Who was probably hurting so badly right now, with an ebbing, aching, acute pain.

“You should have told me,” the crack in his voice is minuscule but he hopes Dave doesn't pick up on it. “Instead of letting me yell at you—”

“Hal.”

“—avoided this much blood loss, but I was just so caught up—”

“Hal.”

This time, Hal stops. The roll of gauze is fraying between his fingers, and it feels like his heart might be doing the same when Dave grips him, and pulls him closer. Overhead, the light flickers. 

“Hal. Listen to me, for once in your life.” He says exasperatedly but fondly. Hal stares back. This is a life-threatening situation, he wants to say, but the other part of him wants to know what Dave's got to say.

“Listen. When I was eighteen, in the Green Berets, someone tried to cover for a mistake I made. It was a stupid one, but I didn't want to face the consequences, so someone tried to take the fall for me. Got in the way of the Commander.” Hal continues to dress the wound as he speaks, well aware of the hazy gaze focused on him. “I watched him fall to the ground. He got punished twice as badly for doing that, for me. Real men are supposed to shoulder everything themselves, we were told.”

There's a twist of disgust in Hal's stomach at that. A curl of hair falls over Dave's forehead as he leans back against the wall, and Hal finds the urge to tuck it behind his ears so— so overwhelming, so instead he grits his teeth and forces himself to focus.

“When I saw you enter the database, I panicked. You were supposed to stay in the van, and the guards were already on their way. I was prepared to face what I had to. Even if that meant some punishment, some incarceration of sorts. You, Hal, were an unexpected variable. It threw me off,” he bares his teeth in a humourless smile. “And the only thing I could think about was my comrade's bloody nose, concussed and lying in front of me. How that could have been you, or worse.”

His voice softens. “I didn't mean to shout at you. I was angry, and shell-shocked that we somehow made it out untouched. Well,” he looks down at his now cleaned and dressed wound. “Relatively. Hal, you're just as much my partner as I am yours. I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you.”

Suddenly Hal's too conscious of this. This entire situation, where he's standing between the legs of a ridiculously ruggedly attractive man who's stripped down to his bottoms, and is looking at him with such genuine earnestness it almost feels off-putting. It doesn't help that he's still clutching Hal's arm, curling and pressing into his skin in a way he wishes was permanent. 

“... You could have just said that,” is what he croaks out finally. 

Dave snorts. “What, and skip out on the delightful pre-dialogue?” He hops off the counter. “We're both emotionally constipated idiots, really.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hal sighs as he chucks the bloody tissues and wipes into the bin. “ It was either that or ignoring each other for days.”

“Yeah, well,” Dave continues to lean against the wall, watching him, intent as ever. “Don't die on me, Hal. If you’re ever abandoning the mission plan, for whatever call you make, let me know, and we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

There's silence lingering in the doorway. The tap runs into streaks of red and brown, and Hal swallows. Outside, it's as quiet as the night. Sometime during their fight, the rain petered out and slowed to a drizzle. 

“Okay,” He says slowly because he's not sure what to do. His hands are very still by his sides, because otherwise he would wring them nervously.

“I'd rather not argue with you Hal. I'm sorry. I get caught up in things, then I say shit I don't mean and can't take back,” Dave says as he rakes a hand through his hair frustratedly. Then he turns to look at Hal, intent and buzzing and so silent.

“Okay,” Hal says again, but he's not sure if he's opened his mouth wide enough to allow the words to slip out and be heard.

How many times has he found himself caught in this situation? With Dave staring at him like that, the blue glow of his eyes like a pit he might fall into if he wasn't careful? 

What exactly are you doing, Dave?

Then, in one fluid motion, he peels off the rest of his suit and Hal stops thinking whatsoever. 

“I need a shower,” he announces as if it isn't already obvious. “You're welcome to join.” Dave, confident as ever, cocks an eyebrow. Dave, right before him. Completely stark naked and grinning like it was normal. 

If he wasn't so startled, Hal might laugh in relief. They're back to usual, griping and joking with each other. (Privately, Hal thinks this is better. Of course no arguing is great, but no arguing also means no unspoken tension between them. No more of Dave looking at Hal like— like something might happen. No, this is predictable, and predictable is always safer.)

“I'm leaving!” He yelps instead, moving so swiftly he bangs his ankle against the door while shoving the kit back into the cupboard and stepping out. “You'll be okay with your, you know, your hip?”

“I'm not made of porcelain, Hal,” he waves him off. The last thing Hal sees is that little curve of his lips, warmth and forgiveness in one, and he keeps imagining that smile against his own, gentle and with weight. “I'll be fine.”

The door closes, and Hal exhales, leaning against it slightly before he stands up. He knows what he has to do, and he does it. He picks up the remaining pieces of clothing off the apartment floor, calls Mei Ling to update her (“Hal! What happened to the two of you? You weren't picking up my calls!”), reassures her that they ended up fine, then reassures her again when she hears they've been fighting. He fills in his mission log, lets the scratchy sound of his pen against paper fill his head instead of whatever else is roaring at him, takes a shower and heads to sleep. 

He's tired. Physically, that's not a surprise; he's undergone an entire day's worth of missions, completely flunked it and panicked his way back to the safehouse. But he's also so—so exhausted, from fighting with Dave, having to stay on his toes and dart away from his questions. So fucking tired of Dave's unwavering trust in him, his unearned belief that Hal will do the right thing and that warm voice he uses when he tells Hal how much he wants to protect him. Of having to wrench his heart away in those moments, because Hal knows, deep down, despite whatever Dave believes, he's wrong. The blood on the floor, on his hands says otherwise, he was incompetent enough to endanger his partner and reckless enough to yell at him. Jesus. 

He's in love with Dave. Of all the things he knows that are true or false in this world, and every other minute nondescript detail in-between, he at least knows this contains some definition of truth. He's known it for a while now, has molded this fuzzy idea into something coherent enough for him to come to terms with. He's not sure if it's with shame or guilt or disgust that he came to this realisation with, but it feels like it's eating him alive. 

You may love him, but if you can't even protect him, what's the point? Putting aside the moral complications of—of this, this vague gnawing worm in his brain, the fact of the matter is that Hal is not good with loving people. He's too soft, too weak, a shadowy outline of a man that lingers like a spectre in your dreams. Too easily manipulated, and for that he suffers, people die, and—

Hal tries not to think about what that means for him or for Dave. 

That last promise, of how Dave will be fine, Hal, bites his skin like a jagged shard of glass as he slips into bed. Dave's already asleep by his side of the mattress, so he takes extra care to not jostle him too much. 

By the time he's under the covers, the bed dipping below his weight, it's late enough that he feels sleep chasing him into the night, his biological clock already shutting down. He succumbs eventually.

With it, he dreams about Dave, of him sliding his fingers in Hal's hair, Hal falling from his lips, and his eyes are soft around the corners and “I'll be fine, Hal,” and he wakes up in the middle of the night to throw up, praying to whatever merciful god that Dave won't wake up, won't check on him and nurse him back because he couldn't stand it if that happens.

You did that to him, he whispers to himself in the dead of the night when he's sure Dave can't hear him, still clutching the edge of the toilet bowl. You did that to him, and you dream of him still, and— He never does finish his thought because he's growing sick thinking of that gun wound, of what that meant to Dave, of what that silently said about Hal, that he couldn't protect the person who meant the most to him. Who means the most to him, who makes him laugh and knows his quirks and flaws inside out. It makes him want to laugh, or cry, or maybe chew the flesh of his lip and hope it leaves a scar like Dave's so they'll be even, and maybe his love for him will evaporate in the gap between.

He climbs back into bed, plagued by a mixture of guilt and desire, and falls into a restless sleep.