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26 May 2010 @ 01:57 pm
Well, at least it keeps me entertained...  

I don't believe that I just went there. But hey, it's out.

Title: Instruments of Victory
Pairing: Big Boss/Ocelot
Rating: Slightly NSFW
Summary: Ocelot has always enjoyed a little competition, especially when there were hidden benefits.
Word Count: ~1500
Warnings: POV strangeness, closet crack, shameless abuse of classical music. Also, Psycho Mantis doesn't take kindly to people messing with his phobias at all since he investigated that serial killer [ETA: I had the weirdest notions of what was "funny" when I wrote this].
Notes: I blame The Last Days of FOXHOUND for the fact that I can't get the notion of Mantis and Ocelot fighting over who's the bigger manipulator out of my head. I went with the interpretation that Mantis has an aversion to sex in general (even if it may be an unfair extension), just because it makes the contrast between him and Ocelot's "innuendo for all seasons" that much funnier. And thus they Clash Epically. I sincerely apologize.
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid belongs to Hideo Kojima & Konami.


Instruments of Victory


Ocelot entered what passed for Big Boss's office: a plain but elegant room with a marble floor, high windows flanking a large desk with its load of necessary papers and devices, and a decent leather couch by the opposite wall. In a way, it was rather stereotypical – nearly as much as the soft, untraceable music playing in the background. Walking silently except for the faint clicking of his spurs, the intruder approached the desk, leaning against the edge. Even as the sole occupant of the office, he had that aura of impenetrable confidence that seemed to be his default.

Minutes passed in a blur of fast-forward until the door opened again, admitting a formidable figure that was at once recognized as the room's regular proprietor. Big Boss barely stirred when he noticed Ocelot had besieged his workplace. Instead, he seemed to incline his head in greeting.

Ocelot gave a verbal answer, “Thanks for the security clearance. You don't mind that I invited myself, of course.”

“Of course,” Big Boss snorted, not waiting for indication of any sort before he joined Ocelot at the desk, sitting a little too close. He tipped his head back, “What a day. Where are those fake death pills when you need them.”

It appeared Ocelot knew what the complaint was about, as he immediately nodded in assent. “If it helps, I'm set on distracting you.” He shot Big Boss a meaningful look, earning himself a low chuckle. His foot slid across the floor towards Big Boss's. What looked like a teenagerish attempt at flirting became something more treacherous, more in-character when Ocelot hooked his ankle around the other's and pulled sharply. His spur caught in the hem of Big Boss's trousers, and the slight imbalance that resulted was enough of an opening for Ocelot to lunge and send Big Boss to the floor. The impact produced an unsettling crunch as the victim's joints collided with the unforgiving marble. Big Boss grunted in pain; the music morphed into an orchestral roar conspicuously resembling something out of Wagner's Ring Cycle.

Pressing his advantage, Ocelot crouched beside Big Boss, then climbed on top of him to be sure he could hold him down. Inside layers of formal clothing, their bodies were evenly matched. Ocelot lowered his face. For some obscure reason, Big Boss did not seem overly disturbed for someone who had just been knocked down by a trusted ally. Their noses were brushing and Ocelot's medium-length hair framed both their faces when he asked, “This working for you?”

“Starting to,” said Big Boss, arching his back – and rolling the two of them over, pressed his forearm to Ocelot's neck just hard enough to prevent him from lifting his head. Interestingly, Ocelot's response was a genuine smile, albeit a somewhat choked one. One of his gloved hands crept across Big Boss's back, kneading the muscles in a way that looked painful, although he surely knew how to go about this because the effect on his captor was instantaneous. Relaxing by the slightest degree, Big Boss bent his head to lay it on the other's chest, making the scene ironically evocative of a kitten in his owner's arms. Not that people ever owned cats. Cats were nature's psychics, not servants to human whims.

The scene was just the calm before the storm hit. Suddenly Ocelot's fingers twisted in the fabric and his other arm came up to grab Big Boss, pushing him off. He did not stop there, however; springing up almost too youthfully, he pulled Big Boss with him by the collar until the older man was on his knees.

Grinning, Ocelot demanded, “Who wins?”

Big Boss gave an impression of looking to the side, and this breach of eye-contact provided sufficient for him to take Ocelot off guard. They spent a moment squabbling over the desk, during which time Big Boss managed to pin Ocelot down to the mess of scattered papers, but Ocelot countered this with the unbelievably dishonest trick of kicking out with one of his boots. The unexpected sting of his spur robbed his opponent of balance just as Ocelot needed. Exploiting this chance to the fullest, he tore himself free of Big Boss's grip, rendering him immobile from behind. With impossible quickness he drew his trademark revolver and pressed the muzzle to Big Boss's neck. “Well?” he half-growled, half-laughed.

“Will you never let it go?”

“Not a chance.”

Big Boss sighed. “All right.” And he grabbed Ocelot's hand, pulled the trigger – the only result being the predictable click of the empty barrel – and in doing so managed to twist the weapon out of Ocelot's control. Throwing the gun away, letting it land on his computer's keyboard, he jabbed at Ocelot's ribcage with his elbow to force him backwards. The effect was barely there, but enough for Big Boss to extricate himself and face Ocelot head-on in turn. For all the competition between them, neither was aiming to cause actual injury; that much was obvious from the subdued nature of the ensuing tussle.

Backing away from Ocelot to take a breath, Big Boss calculated his next move. Whether or not it would have been the winning one lost all relevance the next moment, though: the last step he took was unguarded, a mistake that would have been costly on the battlefield. In his own office, it merely landed him on his back atop the temporarily forgotten couch. Ocelot wasted no time and pounced.

He let out a triumphant chuckle as he straddled the other's hips. Blissfully disregarding Big Boss's expression, he implored, “Say it.”

A moment of silence so tense it could be felt – and then, to Ocelot's visible stupefaction, Big Boss relaxed beneath him. He raised his arms in a conciliatory gesture, both of his hands coming to rest on Ocelot's shoulders. In the dim light it became suddenly, irrevocably clear that Big Boss was tired. Too tired, for once, to carry on the fight.

“You win.”

The tumultuous music died away, replaced with a discreet tingling melody. Ocelot knew better than to tease the other man now, so all he gave in response was a nod. Did he need this meaningless victory, too private to ever brag about? His fingers worked on Big Boss's shirt, eyes all but glued to the rising-falling chest beneath. He removed Big Boss's eyepatch to kiss the blind wound; this elicited a strangled moan in the space between acceptance and anger. Ocelot honoured the implication in time, switching his attentions to the other's lips. Big Boss's entire body surged against him.

All this needed now was a fanfare--

♯ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪


“What are you doing? Why did you stop, we're not done yet!” Ocelot protested.

“Ocelot, that – that was enough!”

That conniving freak shook his head in a condescending fashion that would have caused me to hurl all the room's (admittedly rather Spartan) furnishings at him, had I not been preoccupied with purging the imprint of his ridiculous hormonal outburst from my mind. I could tell Ocelot was watching, could hear the condescension in his voice as he spoke, “Well, you were the one who just wouldn't believe I'd ever defeated Big Boss. Truth to be told, most people wouldn't take my word for it. Luckily you fall into the negligible portion of the population that possesses the ability to go and simply check whether someone's telling the truth or not. How convenient for us, isn't it?”

I looked up and his eyes were alight above his self-satisfied smirk; I contemplated diving back into his mind to try to confound him, but decided against aggravating the trauma. I was not watching him or anyone else spill his bodily fluids. This time he had gone too far. At least neither of them could have ended up with the other's children - I gagged inside my gas mask at the mere idea. Still, I knew he had not made up what I'd seen, if one discounted the embellishments of incidental music or speeding up time. Not even he could fool me by lying and he knew it. Indeed, he'd tricked me by the truth.

“Convenient for you, perhaps,” I managed at last, even sounding more or less composed. Ocelot was still wearing that despicable grin of his. He might have intrigued me once, but I was never going to touch that filthy mind again. Even if it meant forsaking revenge.

No doubt he understood that, too. That depraved piece of garbage, he'd worm his way into the bed of anyone if the stakes were high enough; worse, he'd do it for sport. Him and his “long silver bullets”. He was such an – ugh, here came those images again--

"I'm afraid I'd better be going," I heard Ocelot say over the incessant hum of Wagner. "My gun needs some polishing for tonight, and I'd rather have that taken care of before Solid Snake arrives. Please, Mantis... try to hold him up."

He shrugged and strutted off, victorious.

 
 
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