Like many other people, I decided to try my hand at a Kim skillset-turned-character study. And I’m posting it here, because I feel like it’s not quite right for AO3. Here’s the summary, but I’ve written blurbs in the style of the game if you'd like to click through.
QUI VIVRA VERRA:
- hand-eye coordination
- interfacing
- kinetic dressage
- resilience
- panic and stressor disorder
- brawn
DETECTIVE
- deduction
- revacholiere
- kimball
- pas de deux
- professionalism
- authority
ANIMUS
- volta do mar
- composure
- torque dork
- rule of cool
- notation
- practicality
SELF-ACTUALIZATION
- speedfreak
- passion
- alienation
- underground
- self-critique
- le coeur
QUI VIVRA VERRA
stay alive
HAND-EYE COORDINATION:
COOL FOR: TAILORS. HEAVY MACHINERY OPERATORS. PINBALL ENTHUSIASTS.
Hand-Eye Coordination is all about those fine details as synapses fire in your brain, connecting your eyes to your hands -- and those eyes of yours aren't so good, are they? You've had to work extra hard for this one. It's what allows you to thread a bobbin, to make that hairpin turn that's more cool than wise and though you hotly deny it, yes, it's what lets you really go ham on the three-ball special for the Man From Heimdall pinball machine to nudge at it at just the right time to win The Babe and an adolescent light show. If you want to have any hope of shooting a firearm well enough to pass your exams, this is the skill you need.
At high levels, Hand-Eye Coordination will help you survive. You'll make that shot. You'll catch the wrist of a desperate criminal before he jabs you with that switchblade. You'll be able to sew a bar tack so that you don't ruin that beautiful - and expensive - antique coat. At low levels, you won't be fit to function in basic society, let alone be a cop. Everyone will see the weaknesses they expect from you.
INTERFACING:
COOL FOR: MECHANICS. RADIOCOMPUTER PROGRAMMERS. MASTER MAGICIANS.
Interfacing is what allows you to connect with the mechanical world. Dive into the world of radiocomputers, dig your fingers into that engine, go ahead and fix that leaky faucet yourself because god knows your landlord is never going to take care of it! It's a useful tool to have in life to make sure you can be the independent adult you want to be. With this skill, you can identify this skill in others as well. See what suspect is trying to pull the wool over your eyes by citing that they were doing repairs with the wrong tool that just so happens to be the murder weapon. See when the motor pool's trying to scam you. Use your clever fingers to pick locks and pockets alike!
At high levels, Interfacing will ensure that humans lose their charm. They are not predictable and controllable the way machines are, bending coyly to your whims, and why bother dealing with your fellow man when you can simply lose yourself in pistons and valves? But your motor engine can't keep you warm at night. At low levels, you'll -- wait, what do you mean your motor engine can keep you warm at night? Forget it. You're already too far gone.
KINETIC DRESSAGE:
COOL FOR: SEOLITE MONKS. CEOS. PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES.
Kinetic Dressage is what keeps you running as a well-oiled machine. Everything you do, everything you wear, everything you use is made with functionality in mind, even the things other people don't think about. Your ballpoint pen is a wand in your hand, waterproof ink running smoothly along the crisp off-white paper of your notebook. Everything you wear has pockets, every item you carry on you has its specific place. You eat your vegetables, you get your 8 hours of sleep, and you have the willpower to smoke exactly one cigarette a day. It's the sort of rigidity high net worth individuals say is a testament to how they got to where they are now. You are not a high net worth individual, but you're keenly aware of the fact that you only get one body in life. Best not to let it go to ruin.
At high levels, you're incredibly functional. You will not succumb to the temptation of drugs and alcohol, your feet will remain unblistered, your tools well taken care of and streamlined. You're prepared to take on anything and everything, and you won't tolerate anything less from yourself. But it's not cool, is it? There's a point at which it sucks all spontanaeity out of your life, leaving you with no freedom to truly express yourself. At low levels, you'll indulge in all the illogical creature comforts you want until you look up and see nothing but the wreckage of what could have been a good life before you.
RESILIENCE
COOL FOR: OVERWORKED NURSES. WINTER CAMPING ENTHUSIASTS. SERIAL MONOGAMISTS.
Maybe Kinetic Dressage is what keeps you running as a well-oiled machine, but Resilience is what keeps you running
period. It's the skill that will have you endure, will have you flourish in the midst of the pounding adrenaline that inevitably end with a crash. Sleepless nights? No problem. Raging winters? Part of the job. That pounding headache? Pushed aside, baby. A racist screaming in your face? This will give you the strength to stoically bear it until you can give them the old what-for. Pain and heartache and strife is what it means to be alive, dearest. This will give you the strength to keep going, not because you want to, but because you must.
At high levels, resilience will help you weather every storm and adapt to whatever life throws at you, but it will make you overconfident in your own abilities. No matter how high your resilience is, it will not turn you to stone. If you keep going as much as your resilience tells you you can, you'll keep taking more and more on until you break down under the pressure. At low levels, it won't take much pressure to trigger that breakdown in the first place. Have you considered a career change?
PANIC AND STRESSOR DISORDER
COOL FOR: WAR ORPHANS. SURVIVORS. LIEUTENANTS THAT CAN'T CATCH A BREAK.
After an event that has been classified as being sufficiently traumatizing, it is RCM policy to have their officers undergo a psychiatric evaluation. It does not come with psychiatric help, of course, but it's better than nothing. The woman you spoke to mentioned potential Panic and Stressor Disorder. You had countered her with the fact that in Revachol, you would have to be a fool not to demonstrate caution. She responded with a noncommital hmmm. Panic and Stressor Disorder is what fuels the fear in your heart. People without fear never tend to live for long. It will spot the switchblade in the pocket, the stalker in the night, the malevolence of a man unafraid to pull the trigger. It is something ancient and carnal in you that tells you to react on instinct and to believe the worst in people. Worse yet is how often it's right.
At high levels, you'll be too jittery to focus, seeing threats around every corner for you and your buddies alike. You'll pull your firearm too soon, pull your trigger too soon. What you thought was a monster crouched in the night was actually your neighbour's fluffy little dog. But at low levels, you'll have trained yourself out of all survival instincts. Keep your eyes peeled and your hands stilled. Nobody but you can hear the clamour of your heart.
BRAWN
COOL FOR: SAMARAN BEAR WRESTLERS. WEIGHTLIFTERS. YOUR DREAMY NEIGHBOUR WHO CARRIES ENORMOUS BAGS OF CAT LITTER UP FOUR FLIGHTS OF STAIRS EVERY SUNDAY.
Brawn is a necessary skill that no amount of brains can make up for. You will get into fights. That's a fact. Brawn is what will help you survive it. It will help you knock down doors, pry open locked containers, push someone's stalled vehicle up an icy hill and, if you're good enough, catch someone's hand in mid-punch like those action movies you pretend not to like. When the cards are down and you're stuck fighting some guy twice your size, it helps if when you punch him, it collides with a crunch.
At high levels, you'll be able to do every physical feat you set out to do, but your vanity and desire to solve things straightforwardly will set you on the wrong path. You'll want everyone to see how well you can break down that door even though the key's in your pocket. In other words, you'll be a dull meathead. But at low levels, you won't be able to do the bare minimum, your fists flabby and as weak as your gut. Good luck fighting in that condition, binoclard.
DETECTIVE
just like in the movies
DEDUCTION
COOL FOR: DEFENSE LAWYERS. MOB BOSSES. SCHOOLTEACHERS.
Deduction is the primary skill in your toolbox, you mean, lean, detecting machine. It allows you to look, really look at a case and put all the little details together as smoothly as you solve your crosswords or as relentlessly as you minmaxed your Wirral characters back in the day. You'll be able to see evidence from every angle, spot footprints in the mud, draw invisible lines between persons of interest,
pounce on inconsistencies, and make flying leaps of logic. It's the fun part of your job. The world doesn't look like the terrifying mystery that it is from this perspective. It's a puzzle, and it's yours to solve.
At high levels, deduction will be your best friend on a case, helping you put two and two together. But you'll become so reliant on the way things should be that you'll be blinded to how the truth is often less logical than fiction. At low levels, you'll be rendered too senseless to be of any use as a detective at all.
REVACHOLIÈRE
COOL FOR: TRIVIA BUFFS. PATRIOTS. HOMEBODIES.
Lady Revachol has devoured you. She runs in your boots, your brains, your blood, your bones, for even if she doesn't know you - and she does not; you feel this as a sad fundamental truth - you know her. You were born on these streets, kiddo. You love her even when she's dirty and corrupt, her beautiful skin pockmarked by the wreckage of bombs, her heart made heavy by failure. Being a true blue Revacholière means that your knowledge of the city is unparalleled. You know her storied history and her place in the world, you know how her people think, you know the quiet alleyways good for smoking and rampant homicide alike, you know her slang and her dirtiest swears. You'll be able to contextualize her people and their crimes of passion; knowing the details is nothing without knowing their stories. You'll also know an absolutely insufferable amount of trivia about the city. Remember that nobody really cares that that Fritte on the corner used to sell pathogen-ridden hot foods for courageous drunkards.
At high levels, you'll struggle to look at the world beyond Revachol and its influence on even your small life. You'll be unadventurous, too busy where you are to see where you're going. Your pride in this place will make you less likely to see the grime underneath, laid bare and unromanticized. But at low levels, you won't know her at all. What are you still doing in this dead-end shithole? You'll wonder. You'll get up one day and come to your senses to fly somewhere far, far away.
KIMBALL
COOL FOR: THESPIANS. JUVENILE DELINQUENTS. LOVERS OF CHEAP BEER.
Oh, Kimball. Don't roll your eyes. You really should just accept that you're never getting rid of that nickname. Embrace it! Your time working undercover has given you invaluable insight, even if you insist on pushing it away. This skill is what let you connect with the criminal underground as part of the underground. It's your skill to bluff, to lie, to act reliably as though you're someone you're not even if you're forced to piss out pint after pint of shitty beer they ply you with. It also makes you really, really good at pinball.
At low levels, you'll no longer be able to reliably pass as anything but the sane, functional adult that you are. You'll be disconnected to criminals and the youths alike. Your intimidation tactics will fall flat. At high levels... well, you don't have to worry about that. You've been actively repressing this one. Good luck forgetting about it. Nobody else will.
PAS DE DEUX
COOL FOR: THE NATURALLY CO-DEPENDENT. COMRADES. MOVERS AND SHAKERS OF STATION POLITICS.
Pas de deux -- because what is detective work between partners if not a carefully choreographed dance? All right, it can be a great many things, but in your eyes, partners should be in sync. This skill helps you connect with your fellow officers. Catch the subtle flick of their eyes that tells you to be on your guard, notice the uneasy shifting of their feet, see the way that their spine straightens when the Captain strolls into the room. You'll be able to speak without speaking and empathize with their worldviews. On a greater scale, the Precinct's a stage; with this skill, you'll be able to deftly move through it, aware of your place and aware of how best to navigate it. Maybe you can even get a promotion. Lieutenant-yefreitor Kitsuragi has a nice ring to it.
At high levels, you'll turn a blind eye to your partner's flaws. You'll cover up for them and do anything to maintain good relations in
the station. You'll catch a bullet for them, even if they don't deserve such devotion. But at low levels, you'll get nowhere. No partner, no rising in the ranks, no understanding of the way the Precinct functions and, perhaps most importantly, you won't catch their warnings right in the nick of time.
PROFESSIONALISM
COOL FOR: STONE-COLD KILLERS. TEACHER'S PETS. WALKING ENCYCLOPEDIAS.
The consummate professional. That's you. Professionalism will get you everywhere. With this, you'll remember everyone's ranks and proper titles, you'll fill out every piece of paperwork with the Is dotted and the Ts crossed. The first-aid training everyone is supposed to receive? You'll remember every word. Combat training? That too. You'll turn down every bribe, turn your nose up at every hint of corruption, refuse to indulge in your colleagues' immature schoolboy antics. Your brain is packed with scripts and rules and resources that will help you navigate the murky streets of Revachol's underbelly with some sort of guidebook. Everyone else will see your professionalism too, whether it intimidates them or inspires them.
At high levels, you'll be a rigid law-abiding machine, isolated and remote from the people you serve. You won't pause to consider what will really happen to that person when you arrest them or weigh the law against the mercy in your heart. At low levels, you'll just be another bribe-collecting scumbag willing to beg, steal, and borrow your way to the top.
AUTHORITY
COOL FOR: RADIO NEWSCASTERS. MOB BOSSES. DISPASSIONATE PATRIARCHS.
All of the detective skills in the world won't help you excel at your job if you don't have Authority on your side to make people actually listen to you. Let's be honest: you were not born with the natural gifts of some of your colleagues, who command respect simply by existing. No, you're a bespectacled Seolite with a weak chin and a naturally quiet voice, shorter and slimmer than your peers. But none of that matters. Your carefully cultivated sense of Authority is more powerful than anything that comes to someone naturally. Stand up straight, stick out your chest, and clear your throat; you can do what others do with a shout with a voice no louder than a whisper, because people know you mean business. A single raised eyebrow from you will turn people's legs to jelly. When you speak, people will listen. You'll be able to assert control over a situation, whether that's to command respect from your colleagues from your sheer gravitas so they'll follow your lead in a tight situation or to intimidate criminals into spilling the information that you need to solve the case.
At high levels, you'll be a power-tripping monster, too obsessed with being the biggest and baddest of them all to exercise empathy and kindness when it's warranted. But at low levels, people will just walk all over you. You've had quite enough of that for one lifetime.
ANIMUS
guide your infernal machine
VOLTA DO MAR
COOL FOR: INTERISOLARY TRAVELERS. WELL-ADJUSTED HUMAN BEINGS. CREATURES OF HABIT.
The Volta Do Mar is a technique used by interisolary travellers to remain sane on their long journeys through blinding nothingness, but it's not just for these intrepid travelers. Sometimes even the land-bound need a little help. No matter at how lost at sea you become, the Volta Do Mar will help you find your way back to shore. It's what keeps you centred within yourself, making sure that even if nothing else makes sense, you do. You will resist succumbing to temptation and histrionics alike. No matter how hard things get, you'll sit down at the end of the day, close your eyes, and the Volta Do Mar will welcome you home, a sense of peace and clarity at the end of all things. It will keep you sane. It will keep you yourself.
At high levels, you will be an island. But at low levels, you'll lose yourself, whether that's the oblivion at the bottom of a bottle or falling deep into the Pale.
COMPOSURE
COOL FOR: DRILL SERGEANTS. CAREER GAMBLERS. DELIVERERS OF BAD NEWS.
No matter what emotions swirl underneath, Composure is what
allows you to keep up that poker face. With this, you'll be stony, unmoving, a pillar of reassuring stoicism no matter what you're faced with. People will look at you and think, man, nothing gets to that guy. Nobody will be able to pry past the front you put up, which means nobody will know how to manipulate your emotions or dig into your squishy bits to really hurt you. Not everyone's as good at this as you are. Holding yourself separate will allow you to see all the chinks in their armour too.
At high levels, Composure will make you deeply emotionally constipated. Good god, man, you're alone in your own apartment! Surely you don't need to keep a stiff upper lip there! It just can't be healthy. But with low Composure, you'll crack like an egg. Your every emotion will rise to the surface. People will use you. And you'll let them.
TORQUE DORK
COOL FOR: TECHNICAL DOCUMENTARY ENJOYERS. PORNO-TUNERS. BOMB DEFUSERS.
Being a Torque Dork goes beyond just knowing how machines work. In this, you're a specialist. You know everything about aerostatics and motorcarriages by heart, even if you'll never be able to get your hands on the really good stuff. Given the proper tools, you can do far more than change a tire, and you can recognize an aerostatic model from a single schematic. You know the names of the pilots and the drivers and you can happily hobknob with even the experts without batting an eye. You might even win a debate with a professional TipTop announcer, a subject in which you have extremely strong opinions. They'll be incredibly impressed with your prowess in the field and your co-workers will be even more impressed when they don't need to call in a mechanic to identify what's really wrong with their motorcarriage.
At high levels, you'll be an obsessive, insufferable know-it-all. You're not nine anymore. People are less forgiving of you rambling on about that really cool plane rotor. Criminals can distract you with a single cry of, "Look! It's a Septa 9000 model dragline with vinyl-coated graphene cord!" At low levels, you'll live. It'll just be a lot less fun.
RULE OF COOL
COOL FOR: SMOKERS. TRENDSETTERS. NARCISSISTS.
Rule of Cool is what guides you to do something for no reason other than that it's sexy. It's the part of you that pushes your sober-minded nonsense aside and screams, look at me! Reason has no place here. It's all about how you look. Cigarettes are bad for you, but my god, look at the way the smoke plumes delicately out of your mouth and into the night's sky. That jacket won't keep out the chill, but it makes your shoulders broad and your waist tantalizingly trim. With this skill, everyone else will see your carefully cultivated image too. After you've impressed them, they'll want to impress you too. Hang your approval and your smile just out of their reach; when you play hard to get, they'll give you what you want.
At high levels the Rule Of Cool will rule out common sense. There's such a thing as too cool. It'll also make you a douchebag. Cool people are aloof, after all. Being emotionally accessible is some dull normie garbage. But at low levels, you'll just be some schmuck people will simply overlook and discard.
NOTATION
COOL FOR: COURT TRANSCRIPTIONISTS. PEOPLE WITH CHRONIC MEMORY PROBLEMS. CULTURAL ANTHROPOLOGISTS.
You could blame your profession for your reliance on writing things down, but that argument falls apart when it becomes clear that you don't just write things down that are pertinent to whatever case you're working on. Notation is what compels you to write everything down. Everything. Somewhere down the line, externalizing your thoughts through paper and ink is how you think. It helps you remember details, assess situations through an objective eye, and make decisions that are right for you through exhaustive pros and cons lists. No matter what you're facing, you feel a lot better if you can open one of your many notebooks and thumb back to something that could maybe help you, or at least help you feel a little more in control of the situation. And in some way, in this
solitary life of yours, it's proof: I lived. I was here. I had thoughts, even if those thoughts were pick up eggs, milk, bread, shaving cream.
At high levels, you'll be paralyzed by indecision before you can go through your notes as though right and wrong is an objective thing and can be separated and analyzed. Plus, writing everything down when you're not on the job tends to spook people. Don't do that on social calls. You'll look weird. At low levels, you'll be prone to blundering into situations unprepared and you'll forget the important details you didn't think were important at the time. Plus, you'll lose your main methodology of thinking; maybe other people can think without a pen in their hand, but you're not one of those people.
PRACTICALITY
COOL FOR: RESPONSIBLE ADULTS. EXHAUSTED PARENTS. LIVE SLOW, DIE OLD.
Practicality is what keeps you as a functioning member of society. There's nothing very exciting about it, but it's important to be tethered to reality. Practicality is what urges you to make sane decisions for yourself. You'll pay your rent on time, your fridge will remain stocked with sensible, easy-to-prepare foods, and you remember to water your plants every week. You'll do things not because they're fun, but because life would be a lot worse if you let those dishes pile up in your sink for weeks at a time. Practicality also doubles as an encyclopedia for everything that nobody really sets out to learn but figures out in the long journey of being alive. You remain aware of the sociopolitical situations of the world. You understand how currency works. You know how to navigate social interactions with strangers so you can politely talk about the weather. The world can be a big, scary place, but you know your own comfortable place in it.
At high levels, practicality will make you inflexible and dull. But at low levels, you'll forget the things that are really important, and while others may make fun of you for your steadfast sanity and notable lack of creativity, everyone would be worse off if you threw it all away.
SELF-ACTUALIZATION
you, warts and all
SPEEDFREAK
COOL FOR: ADRENALINE JUNKIES. IMPULSE SHOPPERS. NAUGHTY BOYS.
The Speedfreak inside you is that creature that's just waiting for its next rush. It makes you want stimulation, and it makes you want it now. It's the little voice inside your ear that tells you: the road is empty, why not turn up the music and go really, really, irresponsibly fast? Do it! Do it now! Blast music until you can hear it in your bones! Go dancing! Have sex with a stranger! Maybe drugs aren't bad, actually. Maybe you'll have a really good time! It serves a purpose. It will help you let loose a little. It will help you understand others who live for such simple creature pleasures. Letting yourself have a treat every now and then will help your other, more boring skills stay as effective as they need to be without completely imploding.
At low levels, you won't understand the party people that make up Revachol and you'll be too much of a stuffed shirt to be able to connect with them. Plus, all that repression can't be good for you. How far can you reasonably shove that stick up your ass? At high levels, you'll go skydiving without a parachute. Splat.
PASSION
COOL FOR: HOMEBREW WIRRAL GAME MASTERS. ART SCHOOL REJECTS. BEAT POETS.
Remember, before the prospect of the Pale terrified you, you used to want to take to the skies and fly? Remember the pure, unfettered joy you felt when your school librarian gave you a box of pulpy sci-fi books they had to take off the shelves? Remember when you didn't reschedule so many Wirral games that your party had to kick you out? Remember when, at the ripe age of 39, you bought that model you've coveted since you were nine and spent evening after evening in the joyous pursuit of putting it together? That's Passion, baby. Passion is what you have for the things that you really love for no practical reason that you can justify. It's a rejuvenating, energizing source. With it, you'll be able to learn more about the things you love,
and you never know when more knowledge will come in handy, do you? It also connects you to other people -- but that sort of passion is something you squashed down a long time ago.
At high levels, you'll neglect the dreary, depressing aspects of your life in favour of your fun, exciting hobbies. It turns out that dealing with corpses all day isn't the sort of thing humans naturally enjoy. At low levels, you'll have a hard time wanting to crawl out of bed in the morning.
ALIENATION
COOL FOR: CHILDREN OF THE DIASPORA. FACTORY WORKERS. BIG CITY LIFERS.
Alienation is the name of what you feel when a second-generation white Revacholiere yells at you: Welcome to Revachol! It is what you feel when your elderly Seolite neighbour starts talking to you in a foreign language and looks pityingly at you when you say sorry, I don't understand. It is what you feel when a well-meaning co-worker tries to set you up with his sister and you can't be honest about why you're saying no. (Not that you'd agree to being set up with his brother either.) It used to be painful. But you're old now, and comfortable in your own skin. You've taken the barbs and directed them outwards instead. Alienation will help you stand firm in who you are as a person, not dictated by expectation, but by who you know yourself to be. It helps you stand a little bit apart from everyone else and give you the clarity of an outsider, able to make assessments others miss. It helps you compartmentalize, separating your feelings and motivations into little boxes until you're ready to properly deal with them.
At high levels, Alienation will ensure that you'll never be able to genuinely connect with another human being. Being an outsider isn't always the gift you can make it into. But at low levels, you'll be compromised. You'll take every snide word personally and try to twist yourself into unnatural shapes just to fit in. And no matter how hard you try, you never will.
UNDERGROUND
COOL FOR: SHHH. DON'T SAY. ANYBODY WHO NEEDS TO KNOW, KNOWS.
Oh, darling, you always knew you were different. It was tiring labouring underneath the weight of others' expectations, wasn't it? It was tiring feeling like perhaps something was wrong with you. But then you grew up and there it was waiting for you: The Homo-Sexual Underground, filled with people with all sorts of interesting thoughts about sexuality and gender. All of a sudden, you weren't alone anymore. You were a part of an exclusive club, and what an exciting club that is! The Underground is your ability to navigate these spaces with ease. You know the symbols, you know the language, you know the secret codes you pass among yourselves, the bars and clubs and board game groups in which everyone's a little freer to be themselves. It will help you recognize your own in the wild, and it will let them recognize you too. Maybe in a kinder, more accepting world, there would be no kinship based solely on who you feel desire for. Even so, you relish it.
At high levels, you'll be able to stay on top of all the new words the kids are using these days. You didn't think the Underground would stay the same forever, did you? But don't worry. To the Underground, you're an elder. They don't expect this of you. At low levels, you'll find a wife so you can be the sexually-incompetent, emotionally-unavailable husband you know you could be.
SELF-CRITIQUE
COOL FOR: RELIGIOUS FANATICS. RESPONSIBLE ADULTS. CHILDREN WITH DISTANT FATHERS.
Self-Critique is the skill that keeps you in line. You'll be able to see how others see you, and it's not always in the most flattering light. More importantly, you'll be able to see how you would see yourself if you were to meet yourself. Keep yourself in line. With Self-Critique, you'll be able to see every mistake you make or are about to make, you'll see what interests make you look frivolous and foolish to the outside eye, you will be able to restrain yourself in the pursuit of perfection. It's that voice inside your head that tells you when you're being stupid or mean or vain, the voice inside your head
that says all the nasty things to you before anyone else can. Sometimes this voice doesn't sound like you at all. Sometimes you suspect this skill gets closer to the truth than the others ever will.
At high levels, you'll be too stymied by self-critique to do anything, like a communard writing manifesto after manifesto and throwing each and every one of them away. It is a joyless, unforgiving way of living your life. At low levels, you won't be able to identify your own flaws. Someone else will be able to see that you like things. They'll think you're stupid. You don't want that, do you?
LE COEUR
COOL FOR: BLEEDING HEARTS. LOVERS. YOU.
Underneath the cool facade, there is a soft tender heart: Le Coeur. It's the part of you that cares about other people. Your friends affectionately call you a worrywart, and they're not wrong. It's the part of you that will drop off groceries to a sick friend, that will see a young homosexual and try to push them towards people who will understand them, the part of you that will write poetry about your lover's crooked smile, the part of you that yearns to hold and be held. Being in tune with your own feelings means being in tune with others' feelings as well. You'll be able to see to the heart of them, but once you do, you won't be able to look away.
At high levels, you'll guide yourself through life with your heart, which is a very stupid way to live. You'll get hurt. You'll want to help people with no intention of helping themselves. You won't be able to put aside these tender feelings to be able to do your damn job. At low levels, you'll stick to the yearning, a comfortingly familiar place at the end of the day.
This postmodern bullshit that “avoiding the expected” and “shocking your audience” is more important than writing a good and coherent narrative has to die in a fire because it’s ruining storytelling.
Summary: The years-overdue conclusion of this story—will Dave finally admit how he truly feels about Hal?
Notes: Can be read as a standalone if you want. Full story available on ao3.
AO3Link
Snake looked down a seemingly endless hallway, checked from side to side and saw nothing but blank, gray walls. He felt a strong unease as he started to walk down the hall, soles of his sneaking suit nearly silent against the floor.
He pressed a finger against his ear and didn’t hear the telltale click that he was connected to anyone on the codec. He asked, “Otacon?” to no answer. Strange. He began to walk faster, no objective in his mind except to get to the end of whatever hall he was in.
The overhead lighting buzzed eerily as he progressed, the hall continuing to stretch off into the distance—he was no closer to seeing an outlet at the end than when he started.
“Snake!”
He stopped in his tracks, whipped around. It sounded like Hal. Snake took off into a sprint. The hall kept stretching on, no doors, windows, or markers of his position in sight. His heart began to beat faster, a numbness creeping up the back of his neck.
“Snake!”
This time Hal sounded even farther away, his shout coming from the opposite direction Snake was running. He spun around on his heels, straining to hear another sound. Nothing. He weighed the options, then took off running again towards the sound.
“Otacon?!” He shouted, hoping for a reply from the codec, from anywhere.
He ran another minute, beginning to come out of his careful, cautious stance, instead nearing a full sprint. Where in the hell was he? Why was he here?
“Snake, please!” The voice was louder, but strained, almost choking. Snake felt a rising panic—what in the hell is going on?—and he only halfway swallowed it down as he pulled out his M-9.
The lights flickered harder above, the temperature seeming to drop. Snake clenched his jaw tight, trying to steady his breathing. Being afraid would do nothing.
“Snake!”
This time it was a full scream. Snake shouted back, “Otacon?! Where are you?!”
More running. More hallway.
Finally he reached some sort of split in the corridor—left and right. He bounced on the balls of his feet, weight each direction, listening hard for any more indication of where Hal could be. “Otacon?” Nothing. He puffed out a hard breath and chose left.
“Please . . .”
Hal’s voice was quieter, heavy with pain, somewhat muffled as if he were doubled over. Snake felt his stomach drop, his ears hot with fast-pulsing blood. He put his weapon back in its holster and took off in a full sprint.
The walls began to twist, the floor lurching as if there were a small earthquake breaking its way through the ground. Snake dodged the waves, not questioning the why anymore. He had to get to Hal. Now.
He tried the codec again—nothing. He cursed as he ran, his muscles beginning to cry out but he drowned the pain in another surge of adrenaline. Someone had Hal—someone found him.
The hallway turned sharply and Snake’s feet skid as he came around the corner. Then he saw movement, pulled up, frozen for a moment.
Hal was being held, an arm tight around his neck, his glasses lost somewhere. Bright red blood trickled down his jaw and neck. Snake lunged forward, wanting to grab him.
“Snake,” a heavy voice said, the man holding Hal. A familiar voice. The face unblurred, coming suddenly into view.
“Fox?” Snake spat out, unable to hide his confusion.
He reached back and gripped his M-9, pulling it out as he side-stepped to try to get a better angle, one where Hal was out of the line of fire. But Fox shifted, too, grip tightening around Hal’s neck. Hal winced in pain, meeting Snake’s eye.
“Let him go.” Snake tried to sound firm, not pleading or desperate but the fear was creeping into his voice.
Fox just smiled, threw his head back some and laughed. Snake raised the gun, but Fox just laughed more, pulled one arm behind him, still holding Hal tight with the other. Fox pulled out a gun of his own—raised it to Hal’s temple.
Snake shouted, “No—Hal!” and started to run forward, reaching out his hand, looking into Hal’s eyes—reaching—
There was a deafening burst, the squeezing of the trigger—
**
Dave woke up in the middle of jerking his arms wildly, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He whipped his head around, scanning the darkness of the room, sitting upright in the bed. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the darkness, the world still practically spinning beneath him. Quickly he tossed an arm over to the other side of the bed, landed on a jumble of blankets, but nothing else. Fear gripped the back of his neck. Where was Hal?
He shoved aside the covers, moved briskly to the door, swing it open, and winced against the light coming from a lamp across the room. He heard the quiet clicking of long fingers against a keyboard and felt his mind ease with recognition.
He padded barefooted across the carpet, coming up behind Hal, who sat hunched forward in a folding chair, fingers moving quickly across the keys. Dave cleared his throat quietly to let him know he was there before reaching out to touch his shoulder, relief instantly racing up his arms from the feeling of Hal’s warm back.
Hal was focused on his code, so he didn’t miss a beat with his fingers, but turned his head slightly to kiss the top of Dave’s hand, eyes never leaving the screen. “Having trouble sleeping?” He asked in a slightly distracted tone.
Dave slid his hands down Hal’s shoulders to his chest, leaning down to bury his face in Hal’s thick hair. He breathed in his smell, closing his eyes—this was really him, perfectly whole and safe, perfectly oblivious to the dangers waging battle in Dave’s mind.
“Mmm,” Dave grumbled in reply, lowering his face more to press lips against Hal’s neck, feel his pulse point, the beautiful, even sound of his lifeforce. Dave rubbed his fingers lightly into the fabric of Hal’s t-shirt, feeling his heartbeat there, feeling his warmth.
Hal laughed softly, his chest wobbling a little. “I’m getting pretty close to a breakthrough on those security cameras, so I’m going to be a little while yet.”
Dave picked up the hint, but still took a few extra long moments to run his mouth along Hal’s ear, dragging his lips up to kiss his temple, squeezing his ribs sofly. He felt more than heard a sigh escape Hal, but pulled himself away to let him finish working.
“Won’t be much longer,” Hal said quietly, shifting himself around in the chair but not turning around.
Dave shuffled away, looking for his cigarettes. The physical distance from Hal was already allowing the lingering unease from the nightmare to creep back into his stomach and chest. Finding his pack and slipping on a pair of shoes, he opened the sliding door to the small deck area and stepped outside.
It was a cool night, but the crisp air felt welcome against Dave’s hot, sweat-covered skin. He lit a cigarette and settled in front of the deck’s railing, leaning forward on his elbows and sighing heavily.
Flashes from the dream played behind his eyes—Hal’s face skewed in pain, the sinking truth that no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t protect him, from everything, from the world he helped create, from reality.
Dave blew a wisp of smoke out into the night, his stomach knotting itself into a hot ache. He had been stupid to think that things could be different this time—that he’d changed. That his love could do anything but put a target square on Hal’s back. Everyone that got close to him got hurt, even those he couldn’t fully love—Frank, Meryl.
Everyone he ever cared about had been taken from him. Could he really throw that risk onto Hal? Could he handle losing any more? Dave shook his head to himself—maybe his original instinct to run away had been right. Maybe the last several months were irresponsible. Naive.
He closed his eyes and saw Hal’s body dropping. Lifeless. He swallowed hard, taking another drag and holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned and he felt his eyes start to water. The smoke coughed out after another moment, bitter grey clouding around him. What did he really think was going to change?
After the first cigarette, he lit another. Love had made him weak.
**
Maybe a half an hour later, the sliding door squeaked open for a moment. Dave turned around, saw Hal peak his head out, shudder, then turn around back into the house. About a half a pack of cigarettes deep and fully sunk into self-loathing, Dave turned back around and glared into the tree line. When the door slide open again, he didn’t turn around.
Hal appeared in his peripheral vision, a thick woven blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He held the two ends of the blanket, clutched close to his chest as he positioned himself shoulder to shoulder with Dave.
“The security in the Patriots training facility is the best of the best. I don’t think there’s a single blind spot in any of the hallways or classrooms. It’s. . .” he paused, shuffled the blanket around, “unfortunately impressive.”
Dave blew a last puff of smoke off to the side, snubbed out the remainder into a nearby glass jar he’d been using as a makeshift ashtray. He resisted the urge to put an arm around Hal, instead looking down at the cracking wood of the balcony.
“But I’m working on a way to clone some of the security cameras so we can work around it. It’s not foolproof, but we’ll find a way.”
Dave just nodded, not sure what else to add. He wasn’t in any mood to talk work—to talk about another mission where Hal would be put in danger. Hal must have picked up on Dave’s unease, so he added, “But that’s enough work talk tonight.” He moved in closer, rested his head against Dave’s shoulder. “It is really beautiful out here,” he said softly, changing the subject, apparently knowing Dave couldn’t do it himself.
The resolve Dave built up in solitude wasn’t much of a match for the warmth of Hal at his side. He put an arm around Hal, leaning his cheek down to press against the top of his head. Hal understood the nightmares, knew well enough after dozens of attempts to calm Dave that talking about something else worked best. Dave felt a small pang of regret that he’d put Hal through comforting him enough times that it was almost routine now.
“What’s your favorite constellation?” Hal asked, looking up into the sky.
Dave shrugged, considering resisting the comfort. “Never thought about it.”
“Really?” Hal asked. “Never been much into astronomy?”
Dave shifted on his feet back and forth some, resolve weakening more. “No, too much to worry about down here.”
Hal clucked his tongue lightly. “The stars have everything to do with us.”
“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”
“We’re only here because of the stars,” he said matter of factly.
Dave laughed. “Is this some kind of alien theory? Have you been on those conspiracy message boards again?” He felt the warmth of Hal’s shoulder spreading into his whole body, quelling the loud voices of doubt, at least for the time being.
Hal jerked his head up momentarily to shoot a glare at him, “No, Dave, this isn’t an alien thing.” He shifted his blanket around to be able to attempt air quotes, and he rolled his eyes in a way that made Dave smile. “I’m talking bout the building blocks of the universe coming from the explosions of stars billions of years ago.”
Dave looked up at the stars, squeezing Hal’s shoulder, the cue to continue with the science lesson.
“All the basic components of life as we know it came from the insides of long-ago exploded stars. Oxygen, nitrogen, carbon—all from the insides of old stars.”
“What about aliens?” Dave asked playfully.
“Well, obviously we can assume they are also carbon-based, but. . .” He paused. “You’re making fun of me.”
Dave squeezed him in closer. “No.”
Hal lightly elbowed him in the side, but continued, “The fact that we’re made up of the same atoms as the stars means that we are just as connected to space as we are to the earth.”
“Hmm, I never thought about it that way before.” Dave looked up at the stars, then back down at the way their light reflected off the side of Hal’s face.
“It’s a nice way to think about the universe,” Hal continued, “that we’re all connected by these basic atoms, and that we’re at our core the same, all relatives of stars in the sky.”
Dave smiled at that, imagining the light of the cosmos swirling around inside Hal’s heart and chest.
“When you think of yourself as being made up of star stuff, it’s pretty easy to feel strong.” Hal laughed softly, turned his head to look over at Dave, shifting around in the embrace.
Looking down at Hal’s face, Dave felt a hard tingle in his chest. He looked into Hals’ grey eyes—firmly believing that they could only be made up of the light from hundreds of stars, of all the magic in the universe. Hal smiled back at him, cheeks blushing some.
“It helps me to know that we’re not so different from one another, you know? At our core. That maybe what connects us is stronger than what keeps us apart. Some kind of home in there.” Hal sighed, looking back out into the endless sky.
Dave reached out and cupped Hal’s cheek, tracing the play of the light across his jaw with his thumb. How could he have ever doubted this? How could he doubt Hal’s continued optimism, his unshakable belief in the good of the world?
He stared hard at Hal’s lips, their curve down into his cheek, the upward sweep of his cheekbone. He worked back up to those eyes—nothing short of the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
A little self-conscious, Hal laughed again. “What?” It was his way of asking what Dave was thinking.
Dave felt a buzzing in his ears, his limbs going slightly numb. He brushed his fingers against the side of Hal’s face, rested his touch under his chin. He opened his mouth, could only nervously sigh. Hal tilted his head into his touch, eyes curious and bright. What else was he waiting for?
“Hal, I. . .” he started. Looking into his face directly was too much, so he pulled him into a hug, pressed his lips against Hal’s ear—a few shaky breaths. He felt Hal adjust against him, putting one hand against Dave’s chest, the other clutching at his arm.
“Hal, I love you,” he murmured breathlessly, gripping tight to the blanket around Hal’s shoulders, other hand warmly squeezing the back of Hal’s neck. There was a heavy pause, Hal going fully still in his arms. Dave felt frozen, could barely feel any part of his body, stomach dropping into the center of the earth.
Hal pulled back, looked up to search Dave’s face, his eyes wide open, mouth shaking. “S—say that again,” he stuttered out, his voice full of disbelief.
“I love you,” Dave said again, the phrase feeling foreign on his tongue but not at all in disagreement with his heart.
Hal’s face brightened, the doubt slowly fading into surprise. His cheeks grew pinker, flushing all the way up his neck and to his ears. “Oh . . . I . . . thought I’d misheard you,” he said softly, looking away some for a moment. Then he focused back on Dave, licking his lips. “R—really?” he asked, earnest.
Dave’s heart melted, drowning all of the nasty thoughts his brain could think up, all of the fear and doubt. A surge of affection nearly dropped him to his knees, and he couldn’t hold Hal close enough.
“Yeah,” he said, reaching up and running both hands through Hal’s hair. “Really.”
A smile blossomed across Hal’s face that put the entire galaxy to shame. Dave leaned in, kissed him gently, slowly, tasting everything about the moment. Hal kissed him back, dropping his blanket and grabbing the back of Dave’s head, lifting up on his toes to meet him fully, hip to hip, chest to chest.
“Dave,” he murmured, lips loosely kissing between sighs. “I never thought. . .”
Dave held Hal’s face close, palm against the back of his head. “Me neither,” he said, nudging his nose against Hal’s chek
With a long sigh, Hal dropped his head to Dave’s shoulder, burying his face in his chest and neck, shoulder shaking some. Dave put both arms around him, holding him tight. “Oh, God, Dave, I am happy and terrified at the same time. Ha, what. . .”
Dave could relate so closely to that sentiment that he couldn’t help but laugh. “What do we do now?” he finished for him, rubbing Hal’s back.
“I don’t know. I never thought this would happen. Never to me.”
“Does that mean you feel the same way?” Dave questioned, voice gentle.
Hal immediately pulled up, looked wide eyed at Dave, horror stricken. “Oh, God, yes. Yes! Of course. I’m so sorry, I just got caught up and—”
Dave brushed the backs of his fingers down Hal’s cheek, slowing him down. Hal flushed again, licked his lips, then locked eyes with Dave, face turning very serious. “I love you.”
A warmth blossomed out from the center of Dave’s chest, spreading all down his limbs, his head feeling slightly fuzzy. He smiled, feeling his face flush with relief, the revelation that he’d opened his soul up and hadn’t had it stepped on.
With equally pink cheeks, Hal leaned back into Dave’s chest, clutching tight to his back, face buried in the smoky heat of his neck and chest. “Have you ever . . . before?” He asked softly.
Dave wrapped his arms around Hal fully, threading fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “Not like this,” he answered truthfully.
“Yeah,” Hal nodded against his chest. “Yeah.”
They held onto each other for several moments, the gravity of this change settling around them. Dave felt a pang of worry about what this was going to mean for the future—would he really be able to take the risks necessary during missions, knowing that any misstep might keep him from coming home to Hal? Would Hal let him take on some of the riskier moves? Was that really such a bad possibility?
“Come on, let’s go inside before you turn into a popsicle.” Hal quickly agreed, taking Dave’s hand and pulling him back into the house.
**
In the bedroom, Dave sat lightly on the foot of their bed, holding onto both of Hal’s wrists, gazing up into his face.
Hal smiled down at him, cocking his head to the side coyly before crawling into Dave’s lap. Hands quickly encircled Hal’s hips.
“How long have you known?” Hal asked, leaning in to murmur against Dave’s ear.
“A while.” He nuzzled into Hal’s neck. “The summer.”
A quiet tsk came from Hal. “Summer—you sure do keep a guy waiting.”
Dave had to laugh at that. “I could say the same to you,” he countered, slipping fingertips below Hal’s loose shirt. “How long have you known?” He squeezed Hal’s waist.
“Hard to say,” he replied, lips ghosting against Dave’s earlobe.
“Hard to say?”
A chuckle, then a warm kiss below his ear, another between neck and shoulder. Dave ran his nails lightly down Hal’s back, closing his eyes. “In a way I knew that very first night we kissed.”
“Oh?”
Hal lightly traced down Dave’s shoulders with his palms, kissing his neck more deeply. “Yeah. I knew something was different. You know?”
“I do,” Dave nodded, one hand coming up to draw connected circles on the back of Hal’s neck, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“Never felt anything like that before.” Hal kissed the side of Dave’s jaw, beginning to gently sway forward and backward against Dave’s hips.
A warmth trickled down from the base of Dave’s skull, his skin starting to heat up. He gasped quietly, pulling Hal in a little closer.
“It’s a cliche, but,” Hal paused, tipping Dave’s face to the side with his fingertips, looking him in the eye, “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Dave stared hard back into Hal’s eyes, stomach fluttering, breathless. “You saved me first,” he managed. Hal smiled, flushing a little. “I love you so fucking much, Hal.” Dave quickly closed the gap between them, kissing Hal, opening his mouth to pull in his upper lip, hands firm on his hips.
“I love . . . you, too. . .” Hal murmured between kisses, starting to grasp at Dave’s chest and back, fingers wrapping in his shirt.
Dave ran open palms up Hal’s back, clutching at the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted to touch everywhere at once, to practically climb inside him. His hands ran down Hal’s back and sides, fingertips sliding down the waistband of Hal’s pajama pants, gripping his hips and tugging him forward, arching his own hips upwards in return. Dave felt Hal slip his tongue into his mouth, tilting his face to the side, tongues rubbing gentle circles against each other, breathing heavy already.
“I never want to let you go,” Dave gasped as Hal pulled away to kiss the side of neck.
“I never want you to,” he murmured, hands coming to either side of Dave’s face. Hal pushed back Dave’s hair, watching him with dark eyes, mouth parted. “Fuck,” he breathed, then dove back in to kiss him, open mouthed and filthy.
Despite wanting to take his time, really savor the moment, Dave found one of his hands pressed between their bodies, palm rubbing against Hal’s cock through his pajama pants, teeth tugging on Hal’s lower lip. Chills ran down his arms as Hal’s hips canted back against his hand. He tipped Hal backwards a little as he rose off the bed some, surging forward to deepen their kiss more, holding Hal’s hips with both hands now, his cock pushing against the base of Hal’s.
“Here, let me,” Dave mumbled, pulling back some so he could pull Hal’s t-shirt over his head. Hal wiggled around on his lap, smiling back at him—Dave wasn’t sure if his heart could feel any fuller. He pressed his lips to Hal’s chest, lining open-mouthed kisses from one nipple to the other. “Your body is perfect,” he said, breath hot against Hal’s pale skin. “I can’t get enough of you.” The light wasn’t very bright in the room, but he could see Hal’s skin growing slightly pink.
Before he Dave knew it, Hal’s pajama pants landed on the floor, his own quickly following, then he heard the sound of their bedside drawer opening, a bottle and foil package pressed into his hand as Hal moaned against the side of his neck, “Please.”
Hal stayed on Dave’s lap, knees against the bed, arms wrapped around Dave’s shoulders, head lolling backwards as one finger entered inside of him. Dave kissed and bit up the side of his neck, breathing hard, cock twitching as it brushed against Hal’s inner thigh. He tried to take his time again, but Hal kept pleading, “Come on,” so he added a second finger, then a third, teeth against Hal’s earlobe, Hal’s fingernails digging trails into his back.
“Now. Please, Dave,” Hal mumbled, reaching with one arm to grab the lube and the condom, shoving them against Dave’s chest.
In a few moves, Dave was ready, positioning himself, but pausing to catch Hal’s eye before going any farther. Hal stared back at him, mouth slightly open as Dave slowly entered inside, eyes closing for a moment as he softly swore, “Fuck,” but opening again, gaze steady. Dave let out a shaky breath, a shiver running down his back from the base of his skull. He gripped Hal’s hips as he pushed inside fully, holding there for a moment, then kissing Hal’s lips gently as he began to slowly, deeply thrust into him. Hal moaned into his mouth and Dave smiled against his mouth, his heart near to bursting.
Hal raised and lowered his hips, taking a few beats to get in sync with Dave’s movements, then settling into a slow, aching, amazing rhythm. Dave could feel every thrust in his chest, tingles shooting up his back, his arms. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Hal kept moaning between gasps, his forehead pressing against Dave’s. Dave could feel Hal’s cock dripping, twitching against his stomach as he moved, so he wrapped a firm hand around him, stroking along with his thrusts, still keeping the rhythm slow but knowing neither was probably going to last too much longer, not tonight.
It was getting harder to keep his eyes open, but Dave tried to fight it, wanting to watch Hal’s face. Hal seemed to be struggling as well, but he caught as many glances as he could, surging forward to catch his mouth, kissing him long and deep, revelling in the sound of their breath mixing, bodies coming together, the way his own moans sounded against Hal’s.
The slow motion of his hips, his cock sinking deep into Hal, the feel of Hal’s skin below his fingers, Hal’s breath against his mouth—it was overwhelming, amazing. Before long, the tingles below Dave’s stomach started to pulse more urgently, his hips slowing just a little to draw out each movement, his jaw going slack, pressing his forehead to Hal’s cheek as the waves of warmth kept getting larger. “Ha–Hal, love you, love—ahhhh.” His eyes squeezed shut as he started to come, thrusting a little harder as he did, seeing all those stars in the sky behind his eyelids.
A few moments later, Hal started shuddering in his lap, his muscles clenching over and over. “Oh, God, Dave,” he moaned, coming hard into Dave’s hand, collapsing forward as they both fell backwards against the bed, still tangled up in each other’s limbs.
Hal squirmed around a little to deposit his glasses on the side table, then to find a comfortable position, head resting on Dave’s shoulder. “Wow,” was all he could manage.
“Yeah,” Dave agreed, his head light, chest moving rapidly along with his breath. Could all of this be real, truly real? Or was he dreaming again?
After a few quiet moments of catching their breath, Dave readjusted, moving onto his side so he could push Hal’s damp hair off his forehead. Hal smiled back at him sleepily. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” Dave confessed, looking away for a moment, then back to Hal’s gaze, jaw growing a little tight.
“I mean, I am a dream come true,” Hal teased, eyes light. “But I don’t think you’re dreaming right now.”
Dave laughed, leaning forward to press a kiss to Hal’s forehead.
“This is about as real as it gets, I think,” Hal said, voice growing more serious.
“Yeah,” Dave agreed. He settled back against the pillow, reaching one hand out to draw along Hal’s cheekbones with his thumb.
“I am so glad you told me,” Hal said, closing his eyes to enjoy the touch on his face.
“Me, too.”
“I don’t ever want you to stop saying it.”
“I won’t.”
**
Epilogue
Dave peeked into the bedroom, movements quiet so he wouldn’t wake either of them. Hal was on the bed, propped up with a large stack of pillows against the wall. His glasses were still on as he slept, Sunny’s fuzzy head pressed against his cheek, her small body curled against his chest.
Dave used to think there was a strict limit on the capacity of his heart, a limit that was met years and years ago. Then he met Hal. But even then, when he thought there surely couldn’t be any more room left, he just kept being proven wrong. And though it still scared him, sometimes nearly knocked the breath from his lungs, left him awake and sweating in the middle of the night, he was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he deserved this feeling.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/5
Fandom: Metal Gear
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Characters: Solid Snake, Otacon (Metal Gear), Emma Emmerich, Raiden (Metal Gear), Sunny Emmerich
Additional Tags: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Comfort/Angst, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Friendship, Falling In Love, Making Out, Love can bloom even in a safe house
Summary:
Title: It’s Been A Long Time Coming, COMPLETE
Pairing: Snake/Otacon
Rating: R
Summary: First part of a multi-part story about the evolution of Snake and Otacon’s relationship. Snake feels like joining Philanthropy was the change in his life that he was looking for, but there’s still something missing, and it takes the events of the Big Shell for him to realize what he’s been wanting all along.
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