Archive of Our Own

Ocelot can count on one hand how many times he's been this anxious. It's a rather alien feeling, something for which there was always an outlet, a way to ignore it, something he never truly learned how to manage. It's unpleasant. He doesn't like how it feels as though a small animal is trying to claw its way out of his chest cavity, the adrenaline rush that has him hyperaware and shrouded in a flurry of static, how he can't control his trembling or the uncomfortable roil in his gut. The pronounced turbulence of the helicopter doesn't help. Everything is raw nerves, he's usually more collected than this, but right now he needs to break something. Or someone. Anything to relieve the tension.

He knew it was a horrible idea from the start. He even told Miller as much, but Miller already knew the risks. "What other choice is there, Ocelot?" he'd snapped, his tone clipped with impatience. Impatience, and something else - abandon. A man who had settled for a worst case scenario and expected nothing less.

"You've got your role to play, and I've got mine. Bring him home."

And then he'd hoisted up into the helicopter, and that was it. They'd both known better than to be optimistic. 

The rising sense of panic started in when intel reported strange enemy activity - or rather, the lack thereof. There'd been the usual pockets of Soviet activity in the area, patrols were nothing out of the ordinary.

And then nothing. Abruptly, nothing. Poor visibility and no signs of life, save for some erratic movement that didn't seem like it was caused by humans, but wasn't typical of indigenous wildlife, either. Panic turned to frustration when no one could pinpoint what was causing the suspicious activity, why official weather reports were coming back clear when operatives on the ground were reporting the exact opposite.

And then there was that sound. At first he'd thought it was just strange feedback from whatever was interfering with the comms, but there was something about it that made him sure it was a vocalization of some kind - specific, directed, the only clear sound amidst the chaos. Amid hissing static and explosions, the men's screams, what really stuck with him was that sound, a harmonizing inhuman wheeze that made Ocelot's blood run cold. A sound straight out of a nightmare. Identifying it was out of the question, but the least he could do was scout the area personally, try to make sense of what happened.

It wasn't that he didn't trust any of the soldiers to do it, but rather because he felt he...owed this to them. To Miller.

They've got Miller.

He puts on a good show in front of the soldiers accompanying him. Wears the haughty mask of stoicism that comes so easily to him, even tries to convince himself that he isn't on the verge of a breakdown because he actually cares, but because Miller is an integral part of this operation, the key to the success of Big Boss's legacy. He tells himself he's just stressed because he's saddled with the chore of recruiting new men to replace the casualties when they're already spread thin as it is. That he's not disappointed over the fact that this wasn't a rescue mission, but a recovery operation. 

He's prepared for the scene that greets him on the ground. He didn't expect anything short of a massacre, and that's exactly what it is. From a tactical standpoint, it's goddamn sloppy. Like what might result if one strapped a few grenades to a raging bear, no real direction or discipline. Body parts everywhere, no hope of getting an accurate body count. He picks his way among scattered limbs, leans down and tries to identify faces, or what's left of them. Most of the bodies are mujahideen, but he distinctly makes out four bodies in Diamond Dogs fatigues, the code names embroidered on their uniforms. No survivors. 

He sifts his boots through the sand, gingerly toes the carnage aside, notes the conspicuous absence of shrapnel. Not even so much as scorch marks anywhere in the blast radius. Whatever explosives were used, they were unique. Getting a ballistics team out would be a lost cause. There's nothing of significance to recover. The trip feels like a total loss.

Then a cloud shifts overhead and a ray of sunlight bursts through, and in the periphery of his vision, he sees them - a peculiar glint in the dust. He recognizes them immediately, and that queasiness that's been gnawing at him all day gives a pronounced lurch. His legs are weak and unreliable as he makes the few steps over to them, knee giving way and planting into the ground as he crouches down to delicately pick the sunglasses up with a trembling hand and shake them off. They're a little scratched, but surprisingly intact.

Some strange emotion boils up inside him, the airy swell of amusement. He feels a little giddy at the absurdity of it - apparently these things survived a goddamn helicopter crash, too. 

The feeling is immediately eclipsed by hollow panic when he sees the mangled arm laying just a couple of feet away, the bloodied rolled-up sleeve of a familiar infantry officer's jacket. Not far from that, the lower half of a leg in matching olive drab with size 10 combat boot, the laces double-knotted. It was a small quirk the commander had that probably only Ocelot noticed - the result of multiple occasions watching the man hastily get dressed. 

He slowly rises to his feet. His legs still feel like rubber and there's a good chance they'll give out underneath him any second, but he needs to keep moving or the nerves will rip him apart from the inside out.

Miller is alone and missing half his limbs and probably bleeding to death in enemy hands.

He knew it would be a mess, but he hadn't been prepared for this. 

He mechanically wipes off the sunglasses with the end of his scarf. It's an easy way to keep himself occupied, convenient to have something to do with his hands. He spends a little too long polishing the lenses, spaces out a little, stares blankly at the ground as he turns this small task into a compulsive tick and only snaps out of it when he hears one of his bodyguards addressing him. He just nods to the man over his shoulder and dismisses him. Gives him some trite command, some busy work to get the guy out of his face for a minute, to give him time to put himself back together again. Then he carefully folds the sunglasses and gently tucks them into his pocket. 

One of the recruits manages to scrounge up a witness, some woman who looks like she hasn't seen a shower or a bed in days. Like she'd been hiding out here for a while. Or looking for something. Her uniform isn't immediately recognizable, but there's no question she's from another PMC, might even be a free-lancer. She's got some impressive hardware on her, at any rate.

He's so distracted that he doesn't catch her name at first. Nadia or Natasha or something, accent is distinctly South African. He doesn't trust her for a second, but she saw the men who took Miller, and somehow they didn't see her, so it's the best lead he's got.

She's a little too frigid, her face is uncomfortably emotionless, nothing to read from her eyes. It's easy to tell she's practiced in this, in stonewalling a person, in keeping her cards well hidden. She's coldly assertive, standing with her hand on the holster of the sidearm at her hip. Not exactly threatening, but a tacit gesture of authority, of making it clear she's as distrustful of him as he is of her. It's a cop's stance, and he wonders if she was one, once upon a time. She doesn't seem to bend under his intimidation tactics, so he imagines she's got a few psychological tricks of her own. When pressed for what might have brought her out to the Zero Line for what appears to be a solo mission, she vaguely mentions something about seeing what "old friends" were up to and leaves it at that. 

It's a cryptic response and it doesn't ease his suspicions at all, but she checks out with intel. Someone even recognizes her from the MSF days, mentions something about beach barbecues and drunken surfing. How quaint.

She points them in the direction of Da Wialo Kallai in exchange for a job, and Ocelot has no choice but to grant it. He understands the benefit in having familiar faces around for Miller's sake - morale - anyway, and he can't exactly afford to be picky. It sweetens the deal a little when she mentions that she comes with a cat. The base could use a good pest deterrent anyway, and he can have security keep a close eye on her until he can find the time to properly interrogate her later.

At least Miller's alive, he thinks. That much had been confirmed, and it's arguably much better than a worst case scenario. 

He's nauseous and his insides feel all twisted, that uncomfortable clench becoming even more pronounced when he thinks about the next job he has ahead of him. Extracting Snake will be challenging enough, but breaking the news to him is a different matter entirely. This sort of thing was never his strong point. Working under the colonel didn't exactly leave much room for sensitivity training, and he can't even reassure himself right now. He's hardly confident he can hide his own panic.

His emotions make him sloppy, has him accidentally referring to the commander by his first name, getting a little too personal. 

(That's how Kaz would want it.)

(I hope to hell he's alright.)

Years of experience in deception and posturing, it's easy to recover the moment he realizes he's made an error. He seamlessly covers every slip-up, makes it about business and necessity. He's not your average client.

He never really gets the chance to tell Snake the extent of the damage. The best he can manage is a vague warning that Miller might look a little different now. He doesn't even have the strength to break it to him properly. He's gonna look a lot worse than that photo, but you'll know him when you see him. It's cruelly dismissive, almost. 

Even worse is that Ocelot knew what to expect, he'd been forewarned that Miller would have a little less parts upon return, but nothing could compare to actually seeing it for the first time. 

It's a knife to the chest, seeing the Boss lift him out of the chopper, bloodied sleeve hanging obscenely empty from his shoulder. The way he still insists on standing upright, clutching Snake's shoulder with his one remaining arm as he hops his way to the gurney, that goddamn persistent, stubborn bastard, of course he would. Ocelot carefully composes himself as the recruits roll the gurney out, forces his shaking legs into motion as his eyes lock numbly on Miller's empty pant leg, bloody and bunched up, dangling sickly with each painful hop. 

When Ocelot finally manages to gather up the fortitude to go check on him in recovery, the medics tell him he's heavily sedated. He hesitates when he's pointed in the direction of Miller's room. He knows better than to feel responsible for what happened, but it doesn't make it any easier for him to confront it, to lay eyes on Miller's broken body.

He questions the medics a little longer than necessary, anything to stall himself and keep from going into that room. He lapses back into investigation mode and asks what became of the clothes Miller was wearing when he was admitted, figures they might still be useful and have some residual evidence on them for analysis, something that might help them figure out what exactly happened at the Zero Line. It's a fleeting distraction that ends in disappointment - everything has already been sent through the incinerator.

Instead, he's handed a small plastic bag containing what little items were found on the commander upon admission. Useless items, nothing of significance. He doesn't imagine the Reds would have let him keep anything of import on him anyway. He snaps the bag open and upends it, allowing the contents to tumble out onto a nearby table. An empty Zippo that doesn't even yield a spark, some loose change, Miller's old MSF ID card, a pair of dog tags. He puzzles at the ID card, even absently smiles at the old picture, makes a mental note of the birthday. Of course he'd keep this on him, after all these years.

Then his fingers light over the dog tags, and he plucks them up, curiously inspects the engraving. US military, but the name isn't familiar. Or - maybe it is?

He flinches, feels himself start to separate at the seams. It's an itch in his brain, small and annoying and persistent. Some absent part of him, disconnected from himself, feels like he should know this name, but when he tries to focus on it, all that comes up is an uncomfortable static that makes his vision go white, has him muttering incoherently under his breath. Looking at the name has become a little painful, so he just clenches the tags in his fist and shoves them into his pocket. He can feel them, a cumbersome weight burning a hole in his pocket, and he suppresses a shudder. If he were a superstitious man, he'd wager they were cursed. There's probably a reason Miller had these on him. He'll return them when he wakes up. 

But now he's run out of distractions, expended his excuses to stall, so he reluctantly approaches the door to Miller's room, trying to make his footsteps as silent as possible. For one small moment, he hates his goddamn spurs, an inconvenient nuisance even though Miller's out cold and can't hear him anyway.

He lingers awkwardly at the bedside and forces himself to look down into his face. Even unconscious, Miller looks uncomfortable and still somehow manages to keep his scowl in place. It's a little distressing, and Ocelot suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands. He fidgets for a moment and haltingly brings one hand up, pauses mid-gesture, then gingerly sets his hand on Kaz's head, his thumb compulsively caressing his temple. It's more to comfort himself, really.

"Jesus, Miller. I told you it was a shit idea. You goddamn stubborn son of a bitch."

His eyes wander to the stump of Kaz's arm, wrapped in thick bandages, and it makes him a little queasy. He's usually able to stomach this kind of stuff, but this is a little too personal. Maybe a little too familiar. He's no stranger to being indirectly responsible for the loss of someone's body parts. He doesn't like not knowing what to do, doesn't like the impotence of knowing that there's nothing he can do when he feels like he should.

It doesn't help that he's especially nervous, his body tense and ready to flee like he's doing something he shouldn't and is afraid he'll get caught. He still somewhat expects Miller to reach up and swat his hand away, even cringes a little because he's so conditioned to that response, and it's a profoundly strange feeling to freely touch him like this without it being a fight. He takes advantage of it, traces Kaz's eyebrow and then tucks a lock of his hair away from his face, lets his fingers light over his cheekbone. Two weeks in the hole and his skin is still so soft. 

He can't help it, he actually laughs to himself. "Guess our arrangement is over then, isn't it? Now that the Boss is back."

He surprises himself with how dejected his voice sounds, it's actually a little embarrassing. He didn't think it meant that much to him, convinces himself he's just tired and still hoarse from the desert dust, that he sounds much more put off than he really feels. 

He suddenly withdraws his hand from Kaz's head and takes an abrupt step back. He feels awkward and inappropriate, doesn't really know what to do with himself. He isn't entirely sure on the protocol of these things, it's much too personal and intimate for his liking and it makes him uncomfortable. He gets the distinct impression that he's overstayed his welcome and that he should leave immediately.

"You can stay a while, if you like. He certainly won't mind."

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the unfamiliar voice. The Afrikaner woman. He'd put her on the night watch and forgotten about her, and it's a little mortifying, thinking she might have been lurking around while he was putting on this frivolous show of sentimentality. He almost says something stupid and incriminating like It's not what it looks like, but he isn't entirely sure what it is.

She's standing just outside the doorway when he turns around, that serene, thousand-yard stare firmly in place. She stares at him like she's figuring out the most efficient way to disassemble him, and he muses over the fact that she's apparently some sort of shrink, there to provide grief counseling should anyone need it. He almost laughs again. She doesn't seem the least bit nurturing. 

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he says.

She hums a small sound of acknowledgment, gives an impassive nod of her head. "Well, he'll be out for a while longer. He'd never know you were here."

He stares after her long after she leaves. He's a little on the defensive now, feels this rising heat of indignation at how cryptic she was, implying that his preference for professionalism is really just shame at the possibility of getting caught giving a fuck. Shrinks always tended to do that, find some insulting way of completely misjudging your motives.

If he leaves now, it'll just give the impression of guilt, that her inaccurate analysis bothered him in some way. He might as well stay for a bit.

Out of spite, he settles himself into the chair at Miller's bedside.

Out of spite. 

If their relationship had been tenuous before, it certainly doesn't improve after Big Boss's return.

Ocelot never expected his relationship with Miller to extend beyond necessary colleagues, and he certainly never anticipated them approaching anything resembling friendship, but he thought at least a lack of open hostility would have become an acceptable norm. Especially in front of Snake. 

But something had Miller on edge ever since Snake returned, an animosity that seemed to be perpetually stoked by Ocelot's presence, as though Kaz were blaming him for something, though for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what.

Every interaction feels like a fuse about to blow, each time they're in the same room together there's this palpable tension that might detonate at any moment, and everything Ocelot suggests is promptly shot down, seemingly on principle only. There's no question that Miller is slowly uncoiling, fraying at the edges, and it starts gnawing at Ocelot's patience to the point where he starts intentionally pushing the man's buttons just to cause a little collateral aggravation. The guy's a real prick, and it's a little bit of an imposition that he seems to go out of his way to complicate what was already a fragile alliance at best.

It's a funny thing though, the tendency for even the surliest of human beings to exhibit compassion, and the unexpected moments it happens - when he's at his most vulnerable, when he can feel the suffocating panic swallowing him whole, when he feels twenty years old again and an overwhelming powerlessness that paralyzes him even now. 

The last thing Ocelot wanted was for that...thing to be brought back to Mother Base. He'd just as soon plunge it to the bottom of the ocean, but considering its tendency to pull disappearing acts when it should have been a corpse, the best he could do was settle for having it confined to the quarantine platform. It isn't ideal by a long shot, but it's certainly better than letting the Soviets get their hands on it again.

Truth be told, he recognized the bastard as soon as he saw him. He'd kept it quiet, skirted around the subject with Snake, considered it a harmless omission. Even tried to omit the realization from his own conscious thought, because it just wasn't possible, how could he still possibly be alive?

The recovery operation after Skull Face's elimination was really more of a mission for closure on Ocelot's part. He didn't give a fuck about Skull Face. He just wanted to be sure that the colonel - or whatever abomination was walking around in his body - was dead. He needed to tend to it himself, needed to look into the bastard's face and gloat in it.

He'd felt his heart slide into his stomach upon arriving at the scene and discovering that the biggest, heaviest guy in the place was conspicuously absent. Not that he was all that surprised, but it didn't make the disappointment, the frustration, the outright anger any less pronounced. The persistence of the guy, the goddamn audacity to keep on existing, how very like him to keep getting right back up out of some petulant entitlement to dominate and abuse. Ocelot didn't even like the idea of sending Snake to neutralize the guy in the first place, because Volgin belonged to him.

I barely recognize you, colonel.

He'd spat the title out with considerable vitriol, as though it were the most vile word he'd ever spoken. Managed to encompass every ounce of his hatred in one small sentence.

Skull Face used your thirst for revenge against Big Boss, did he?

He intended to say so much more, desperately wanted to indulge the heated diatribe bubbling up his throat, but he stopped himself short. He could feel Snake staring at him, shrouded in that perpetual silent calm, always the impassive witness as he absorbed everything around him. Ocelot found it a little frustrating at times, how impossible he was to read these days, how that eye always seemed to be watching. An irrational flush of shame washed over him, some paranoid inclination that Snake could somehow sense him falling apart, could read him like an open book and knew he was on the verge of losing it.

At the moment, Ocelot just settled for a prolonged glare down at the colonel's scorched body, then turned on his heel and disappeared through the nearest door, anything to get that eye off of him. He couldn't lose himself in front of his boss. 

When the door closed behind him, he kept his cool for precisely three seconds before the walls came crashing down, muscles twitching as he erupted in a spasm of jittery rage, sending flasks and medical utensils flying off of tables, thrashing out until he ended up breaking everything in the room.

He'd have everything cleaned up and replaced before anyone noticed. No one would have to know that he fell apart.

It's raining now. Ocelot wouldn't even be here if it wasn't.

He knows the colonel is dead, but it doesn't make him any less suspicious, any less jumpy around the body. He can still feel it, that charge in the air that always heralded the colonel's presence. He feels every hair on his body stand on end at the static, feels that surge in the atmosphere that always accompanies a lightning storm, a continuous tingle of energy that somehow didn't die with the man. Or maybe it's just a subconscious manifestation, his body responding from memory, the way it thinks it should. 

He shudders and rubs at his arms through his long sleeves to erase the crawling sensation.

"Who's afraid of a little thunder?" he snarls caustically, staring down at the corpse as though he expects it to get up any minute.

He doesn't know where to begin. He has a lot of hateful, vile words saved up for this man, but now that he's actually here, finally has the opportunity to say them, it feels...wasted. He wanted to say these words to a man that would hear them. There's no point to it now.

He says them anyway.

Boss isn't here now, there's no one to see him in this humiliating moment of weakness, and maybe he needs it, a little bit. He shouts until he's hoarse. He says horrible slurs that make him feel vulgar and shameful. Makes a couple cheap shots at Ivan, wherever the son of a bitch is now. And when he's done, he's soaked through and freezing, he can barely see through the rain dripping down his face, but maybe he feels a little better. 

He feels constricted and weighed down, he's so exhausted that his bandolier feels too heavy on his body, so he wrestles with it and shrugs it off, letting it drop carelessly from weak fingers. He's uncomfortable in his skin, too anxious to know what to do with himself. He doesn't exactly know what's missing, just that he isn't quite satisfied.

He doesn't remember going back inside, wandering about the halls, looking at the haunted, darkened rooms and empty cots. He doesn't remember sinking down onto a bed in one of the empty containment areas and sitting in the dark long after the sound of rain outside has stopped.

He only snaps out of it when he hears the distinct staccato of a crutch rhythmically clicking down the hall - a sound he's become specifically attuned to - coming closer with each labored, uneven step, and he panics, fruitlessly swipes at his face with damp gloves. He huffs out a sigh of frustration and claws at his scarf to get it off, turns it over to find a dry spot and frantically dabs his face clean, absently scrubs it through his hair so it doesn't look like he'd just spent a disturbing amount of time in the downpour shouting at a corpse.

Then the commander's silhouette is in the doorway, his face shadowed from the backlit glare of the hallway, and it's difficult to see his expression. Ocelot can feel him studying him, silently inspecting him from across the room, and he makes some small sound, that trademark hum of his that borders on a grumble, then limps his way over to him. 

He doesn't dare look up. He knows if he looks into Kaz's face, he'll see some condescending sneer, maybe even a contemptuous lip curl of disgust. Instead, he just stares numbly at the floor and acts like he isn't even there, so it startles him a bit when the commander props his crutch against the bedframe and wrestles with his trench coat, shrugging it off so he can wordlessly hand it out to him.

Ocelot stares at it in confusion, like he's never seen it before and wouldn't possibly know what to do with it, and after a prolonged moment of Kaz balancing uncomfortably on his one good leg with no response, he withdraws the coat and settles down on the cot next to him instead. The weight shift jostles him a little, but he's already so spring-loaded with nerves that the movement makes him cringe and reflexively tense his muscles, fists clenching involuntarily.  

"Come to gloat?" Ocelot challenges. He hates how much his voice gives him away, how fragile and defensive he sounds.

He sees Kaz recoil a little out of the corner of his eye, flinching as though he'd been struck. "You give me so little credit, Ocelot," he says quietly. "Even I don't hate you that much."

"Then why are you here?"

Kaz shrugs. "That was a lot of laboratory equipment you destroyed."

Ocelot readies himself for a defensive response, some cutting remark about another one of Miller's hypocritical lectures about abuses of GMP, but he's wholly unprepared for what comes next - 

"You alright?"

He finally looks up, snaps his head around to inspect Kaz's face, trying to find some hint of mockery there. Kaz is staring right at him - when the fuck did he take his sunglasses off? - and there's nothing there but genuine concern, cloudy eyes fixed sternly on him as though they can see right through him. 

He almost says something, but his throat closes up as the swell of shock and nerves constricts him. He doesn't have a response to that. He really isn't alright, not even close, but he certainly isn't going to admit that to Miller.

Kaz mercifully looks away. "I know how it feels," he says. "Figured you might not want to be alone. It's alright if you do, though."

"What are you talking about?" Ocelot snaps. "I'm fine." He's a little too indignant, a little too defensive for it to be convincing. Miller putting on this charade of giving a fuck is really screwing with him, and it makes him a little more anxious than he already was. 

Kaz turns to look at him again, eyes traveling to his exposed throat as he raises a skeptical eyebrow. "I can see the pulse pounding in your neck. You're a wreck right now, Adam."

He pauses for a moment, puzzling at this small novelty as though it amuses him for some reason, then spots the abandoned scarf between them and gently picks it up, handling it with something akin to reverence. His expression is unreadable as he turns it over in his hand, but the way he stares down at it, the way he lets it delicately sift through his fingers, it might almost be mistaken for fond reminiscence.

It makes Ocelot uneasy. He wishes he'd never taken the damn thing off now, bitterly musing that exposing one's throat around the likes of Miller really isn't a wise idea. He twitches with the instinct to snatch the scarf back now that Miller's made such a display of it, has to fight the urge to bring his hands up to protectively cover himself. He can see why the man hides himself behind so many layers, really appreciates the purpose behind the sunglasses and the upturned collar. Right now he feels a little too exposed, a little too cold, is painfully too aware of the frantic hammering of his pulse now and he hates how easily it gives him away. 

For some reason it invokes distant memories, sour and dark, vile moments he'd gone to great lengths to repress -

The colonel, seated in a chair in front of a handful of uncomfortable GRU soldiers, Ivan front and center and wearing his typical shit-eating grin.

Volgin pats his knee and fixes Ocelot with that look that conveys a sense of ownership, the implied threat that if Ocelot doesn't comply, things will become significantly worse for him. 

He's good at hiding his contempt, swallows his pride and his nerves as he boldly crosses the room and sits on the colonel's knee, back straight with his eyes staring straight ahead - a plaything on display. He can see Ivan smirking at him just within his field of vision, sees the man shift in his seat and let his legs fall open as he leans back, eyes darting from Ocelot to his commanding officer. The son of a bitch doesn't even try to hide how much he gets off on this every time it happens. 

Ocelot suppresses his shudder when the colonel leans in and presses his mouth to his ear. "Remove your scarf, Major. Show off those marks. Show them who you belong to."

He's thankful he's gotten so good at hiding his trembling. He knows showing weakness will only encourage the man, so he numbly obeys, keeping his eyes vacantly on the far wall as he untucks the scarf and loosens the knot, letting it fall free to expose the smattering of purple and mauve bruising across his neck. A couple of soldiers shuffle awkwardly and look away. He can feel the cruel fingerprints throbbing in his throat with each heavy pound of his heart, the piercing pain of the bite marks, and when Volgin reaches up to nudge his chin up with a curled finger, forcefully tilting his face about to give everyone the full view of the damage, Raikov lets his legs fall open wider and idly starts palming himself through his pants. 

He swallows thickly, gives in to a fleeting moment of weakness as he cringes away from Volgin's thumb bumping over the bob of his Adam's apple. A giant hand wraps around the back of his neck, harsh and commanding, a rebuke for flinching. His throat closes up and he nearly yelps in protest, but he swallows it down. He can handle this. He's handled a lot worse. He knows what's coming now, though. He'll be punished for his weakness. 

"Stand."

He obeys.

"Remove your belt."

Hot anger slices through him when he sees Raikov's hips lift up a little in his seat, hand working himself even harder, humming out a small moan as he openly pleasures himself while the soldiers next to him do their best to pretend it isn't happening. With shaking hands, Ocelot unbuckles his belt and removes it, followed by his bandolier, and he carelessly lets them drop to the floor with a dull thud. He's trained himself enough to put on a convincing show of apathy, so he doesn't cringe when large hands slide under his jacket, or when thick fingers hook into the waist of his pants and underwear, mercilessly pulling them down to his knees.

"Position."

He manages to keep his neutral expression firmly plastered in place, but his cheeks flush hot as he turns and bends himself over the colonel's lap, bracing his fists against the floor as the tail end of his jacket is pulled up to expose his backside. A heavy hand massages over his rump as though to admire it before it's marked up and ruined, and on cue, one of the soldiers dutifully appears at the colonel's side to deliver the leather strap. 

"You know why we have to do this, don't you, Major?"

"Yes sir." 

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, somehow gets through the entire thing without crying out. A short grunt escapes him a couple of times and his eyes water a little, but he maintains his composure. He knows if he lets the tears fall, if he mewls and yelps, he'll have given them what they wanted. When he's made to stand again, he has just enough time to glimpse Raikov, mouth open and still emphatically kneading his crotch, but the colonel grips his hips and immediately swivels him around, lifting his jacket up so everyone can see his handiwork. 

"Bend over, Major. Show them."

He feels like he's going to be sick, but he holds his breath, compulsively swallows a few times, and bends at the waist to showcase his crimson backside. He hisses through his teeth when the rough fabric of Volgin's glove swipes over his abused flesh, but he tenses his legs to keep from cringing away. He regulates his breathing, closes his eyes, just takes it. It could be worse. It could definitely be worse. The colonel could have gone with one of the other punishments, chosen from any number of the other things he liked to do to publicly humiliate him, and of them, this is easily the most merciful. He suspects this was largely for Raikov's amusement, and the man is more of a coward than a torture fetishist. He can't exactly stomach some of Volgin's harsher punishments, and that's probably the only thing that saved him this time. ...This time.

A gloved thumb brushes over his throat, yanking him out of the dark. Miller is still staring at him with that concerned frown, his hand withdrawing a little when Ocelot rears back from the uninvited touch. There's a suspended moment where they stare each other down - either it's a challenge or a silent request for permission -  but then Kaz hesitantly outstretches his hand, slides his fingers along Ocelot's neck and rests his thumb against his throbbing pulse, perhaps as if to calm it somehow.

It takes considerable resolve for Ocelot not to lean into it, not to tilt his chin back in invitation. He hates that it feels so good, that the soft material of the glove is so pleasant. When that thumb starts lazily ghosting along the line of his trachea, it makes him too weak and he gives in to it anyway, just closes his eyes and lets the shudder undulate over him.

It's been a while since anyone's touched him like this. His hand instinctively claws at the mattress beneath him, looking for something to hold onto, and his fingers curl around his scarf. Miller must have tried to hand it back to him, but he was too consumed in dark memories, too distracted by panic. 

"Relax," Kaz chides. "He can't hurt you anymore."

It sounds so tender in the yawning silence of the room, even if it wasn't intended to be. It's a little shocking, how good it feels to hear it said aloud like that. A tortured, helpless sound gusts out of him and he doesn't even realize he's doing it, he just pitches forward, finds the hollow where Miller's neck meets his shoulder and he buries himself there. He expects to be shoved off, or for the commander to recoil and slink away, but he finds that one arm wrapping around him instead, holding his trembling body still to keep him from tipping onto the floor. It's not exactly a passionate embrace, but a restraining one, firm pressure just to keep him stable. It's unexpectedly therapeutic, makes him feel more secure than he has in a while.

"You can cry if you need to," Kaz says after a short silence. "It's just us. I won't tell anyone."

He hadn't really felt the urge before, but just hearing Miller mention it, being offered this invitation to do it freely, it immediately invokes the sting to his sinuses and swells up his throat. So he does. It's silent and breathless, all wet, stuttering gasps, but he just lets go and wraps his arms around Kaz, clutches at him just to have something to hold onto. It feels good to let it out, even if it is a little perplexing that he's receiving comfort from the last person on earth he'd ever expect to offer it.

When he finally catches his breath enough to find his voice again, he keeps his face buried in Miller's neck and breathes out a feeble "Why?"

Kaz understands the question. "Like I said, I know how it feels. I've been there."

There's another prolonged silence, and Kaz's hand idly pats him, a slow, rhythmic thumping on his back that's oddly comforting. He hadn't realized how cold he was until Kaz offered his proximity, and the heat emanating off of his body is too pleasant, it's got him already dreading the inevitable moment when he pulls away. 

"I remember what you told me," Kaz says. "About the things he did to you. I just...know what that's like. To have no choice. To be angry about the things that are happening to you and then be manipulated into thinking that you have no right to be upset but should be thankful. To be constantly invalidated, questioning your right to your own autonomy, questioning your trust...questioning who to trust. About having no outlet because he's manipulated everyone else around you. I know what it's like to be trapped and powerless."

Ocelot has stopped breathing. This is the most Miller has ever spoken to him, at least in a civil manner. It's so personal, much more than he ever would have expected the man to divulge, especially to him. 

"And I know what it's like to finally be free and have no idea what to do with it."

His voice is so soft, even huskier than usual, and Ocelot really appreciates the rumble of his chest as he speaks, so he closes his eyes and presses harder into it. The gun holstered at Miller's chest is trapped between them and it's a little uncomfortable, but just being held like this makes it so worth it. He isn't about to move, not on his life.

"The jitters come out of nowhere and you don't know why," Kaz continues. "Like your body is so used to constantly being on edge that it's forgotten how to relax. Always in fight or flight mode. Sometimes you think you're on the verge of suffocating, your stomach's in knots, your bones feel like they're ready to jump out of your skin and your heart just won't quit. It still happens to me, sometimes. And I know what it's like to never properly be allowed closure. I know the look of a man who was denied the revenge he deserves."

"What are you talking about?" Ocelot mumbles. "You got Skull Face."

Kaz snorts, and his hand goes still on Ocelot's back. "He wasn't the one I wanted."

Ocelot puzzles at this for a minute. "Zero...?" 

There's a fleeting pause. "...Yeah." It sounds so strained that Ocelot knows it's only a half-truth. 

He tilts his head back a little, just enough to see Kaz's face. "So who were you referring to before? Who would have done that to you?"

Kaz's small eruption of laughter startles him, but it isn't mocking or sarcastic, but rather dark and cynical. "Seriously?" He dismissively shakes his head. "I guess you wouldn't have any reason to know, you weren't there." Kaz inspects him out of the corner of his eye, and there's something so shrewd and cunning in that one small glance that Ocelot finds it a little unnerving. "And you still aren't...are you?" he mutters, a conspiratorial edge creeping into his voice. He might almost be speaking to himself.

There's that itch in Ocelot's brain again, that uncomfortable disconnect that makes his thoughts go grey. He's slipping under, the world's tilting away from him, but then Kaz's hand is stroking down his spine, picking up that rhythm against his back again and it reels him back in. 

"Try not to think about it," Kaz says. "It isn't important."

Ocelot takes his word for it. He has this distinct, inscrutable notion that he should avoid the subject, though he doesn't know why. It's too easy to let his head clear and simply enjoy the warmth of Kaz's breath gusting across his ear, the hand on his back, the chest pressing against his. He'd almost forgotten Miller's profoundly slow resting heart rate, how calm and steady it always was, especially after their sessions together. It was rare that he ever got close enough to really feel it like this. It's a soothing sensation, even seems to calm the tempo of his own frantic heart somehow. 

"Do you need anything else?" Kaz asks after a short silence.

Ocelot stiffens and withdraws a little, his stomach twisting at the implication of finality. It's a little jarring, how impersonal it sounds after everything Miller's just shared, and he's not quite ready to relinquish this warmth. He's only now realizing how starved of intimacy he's been, how much his body has been desperately craving some form of contact that he hadn't been aware of until he finally got a brief taste. It's much too blissfully sweet for it to stop just yet.

His eyes betray him and flit to Kaz's lips and immediately dart away - it's only fleeting, could be considered a twitch, a spasm, a strange tick to keep from blinking - but the way Kaz keeps his eyes trained on him, it's clear that he caught it. 

It's a suspended couple of seconds, agonizing and awkward, and Kaz is staring at him like he's waiting for something, daring him. Ocelot has this compulsive desire not to bend to his coy little game out of spite alone, but then Kaz is leaning in, unblinking, face still sober and fathomless, and when their lips press together, Ocelot gasps despite himself.

Kaz takes advantage of his open mouth and gently latches onto his bottom lip. It's a challenge, everything about it feels like a challenge, but it's so unlike the way they've kissed before - a rare occasion in itself - that Ocelot doesn't fight or question it. Where it was usually forceful and insistent, this is soft and tentative. The times they've kissed before, Ocelot was always the one leading. Demanding, really. Asserting some form of control, just taking what he wanted. His heart gives a small lurch when he realizes that This is how Miller kisses. This is all him, just giving it willingly, offering this small part of himself. It's a small privilege, being allowed this.

He opens his mouth a little more, risks entwining his fingers in Kaz's hair, and it's just soft lips whispering against his, slow and experimental. He's an exceptionally tidy kisser, and Ocelot muses at how...typical that is. It leaves him wanting more, makes him want to beg for it, but then Kaz is pulling away too soon, withdrawing the arm wrapped around his back to place his gloved thumb on Ocelot's bottom lip as though to wipe away what little moisture is left from the kiss. 

He doesn't care how desperate or embarrassing it is, he just impulsively leans forward, takes Kaz by the wrist to guide his arm down so he can close the distance between them again and catch that mouth in his one last time. A surprised hum dies in Kaz's throat - or perhaps it's one of protest - but he politely lets it happen. He doesn't let Ocelot make a mess of it though, doesn't let him turn it into that forceful hunger so characteristic of him. It's frustrating in how teasing it is. 

"C'mon, Miller," he breathes, breaking away for just a second. He hates how pushy and needy he sounds, like a bratty child. "Let me - "

Kaz reaches up and steadies his chin, holds him in place and suckles on his bottom lip just long enough to make it feel swollen, then pulls away. "I'm needed in R&D," he says softly. He almost sounds apologetic.

Ocelot won't beg for him to stay. He's already degraded himself enough here, but he'd never beg. He only nods, somehow keeps his expression neutral, then lunges forward in a feeble attempt to help him when he reaches for his crutch and painfully rises to his feet, but Miller's too quick, he's had too much practice doing this. Something tells Ocelot that Snake is the only one allowed to help him anyway. He's the only one allowed that...intimacy.

He doesn't want to acknowledge that he was so afraid for this moment to end because he knows it will never happen again. The uneven clicking of Kaz's retreating crutch is a little disheartening. He watches him go, waits until he reaches the doorway, and then the words are tumbling out of him before he can stop them -

"It doesn't always have to be difficult with us."

Kaz stops, but doesn't turn around.

Ocelot freezes. He's a little flustered now, he didn't know where he was going with this. "We're on the same side," he suggests. "It doesn't always have to be so unpleasant."

Now Kaz does turn around - a slow, painful maneuver leveraged on his crutch. "You and I both know that loyalties are only ever temporary," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. If he sounded apologetic before, he certainly does now. It changes his voice entirely, makes him sound a lot more youthful. "Allegiances can be broken, Ocelot. In our line of work, it's naive to think otherwise."

"What the hell does that even mean, Miller?"

"It means...that things might have been a lot different between us if we'd had the luxury of meeting under better circumstances." 

Maybe it's just wishful thinking on Ocelot's part, but something in Miller's tone makes it sound like he sincerely wished they had.

He's still sitting in the dark long after Kaz has left, staring at the wall as though it might give him the motivation to move. When he finally braces his hands against the mattress to shove off of the bed, his palm lands on the commander's trench coat, neatly folded over and still laying exactly where he left it. 

The appropriate thing to do would be to chase Miller down and return it immediately, but he hesitates. The quarantine facility's ventilation systems are particularly unforgiving, he's still cold and damp from the rain. There's the small twist of shame at the thought of it, how inappropriate it would be, but since when did Ocelot ever care about propriety? 

His eyes dart toward the door as he gathers the coat up, awkwardly pulls it over him and slides his arms through the sleeves. He's slighter of build than Miller - not by much, but enough that the coat drapes off of him a bit. It's a little broad in the shoulders, the sleeves are just a tad too long. There's something comforting in that alone, just being cocooned in too much clothing, and then he's flooded with Miller's scent, overwhelmed with the spiced fragrance of aftershave, Irish Spring, the lingering vestiges of fresh laundry. 

There's no one here to see, no shame, so he indulges in it, rubs his nose in the inside of the upturned collar and breathes it in. There's a twinge in his groin, his cock thickening out with such heated urgency that he doesn't even take a moment to think it through, just leans back and wrestles his fly open and shoves his hand down his pants. If he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, it's close enough to the real thing. It's almost like Miller's still embracing him, wrapped in his coat and buried in his scent, and it's a desperate consolation, but he tells himself it isn't inappropriate or weird because Miller did offer at first, didn't he?

It's frantic and obscene, he doesn't care if he makes a mess of his pants, he just needs it. He thinks about Miller's quivering body, the tortured flesh of his freshly caned behind, his face helplessly nudging into his groin, cornsilk hair beneath his fingers, head obediently tilting back to offer his throat, his mouth. Ocelot really does miss that, that...surrender.

He spontaneously spills over his hand with a short grunt, undignified and uncontrolled, thrusting up into his fist as he bites back against the name on his lips. He wants to say it, but he can't even do it when he's alone, it would cost him too much of his dignity.

He pats around for his scarf, whips it out and cleans himself off with it. Thankfully he didn't spill onto Miller's coat, though some curious, perverse part of him kind of wishes he had, just to see how he would react. He continues palming himself as the drowsiness washes over him, just a relaxed, idle fidgeting to massage himself to sleep. He's confident that no one will find him here. Everyone is so spooked by the quarantine facility as it is that he knows he won't be bothered.

Just as the tendrils of sleep start to pull him under, he has the vague understanding that Miller is much too meticulous to carelessly forget anything.

He never would have left his coat behind unless it was intentional.