ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: October 2023
SUMMARY: — Butch "Fireball" Fitzpatrick / Venom "Punished" Snake —
Tensions on Mother Base were high, morale was low. A free-for-all fighting ring has had the spotlight shown on it, and it was up to Snake to settle things down. Even if it meant taking a proper hit himself.
The crowd's cheers fell silent as the commander inserted himself into the fight, taking both combatants down with trained movements. Where one had lost his grip on the knife, the other gained it, knuckles paling as tensed muscles rose to arm the weapon. Snake was just as quick again to insert himself, firm hands grasping the soldier's arm to prevent the attack.
"Boss!—"
"We don't draw weapons on comrades."
Snake's voice was low. Focused. His organic arm came to join his bionic one on the soldier's forearm, grip tightening as the pair began to struggle. Try as he might to break away from the commander, it wouldn't happen.
"Look around you. This is your family." A sudden pull, and the knife was situated just above Snake's heart. Their struggling grew more desperate. Snake simply took their hand in his, lurching forward as she shoved the blade through his armor.
A dead silence blanketed the crowd, all eyes trained on Snake as the combatant fell backward in a panicked state. The only things that broke the silence were the sound of the collision and their ragged breaths. Besides them, not one member in attendance dared move a muscle. Not them; not Snake. He simply held his eye contact with the solider, breaths steady as the hilt settled into its place.
"Show's over! Get out of here!"
The commanding voice was enough for the crowd to dispel, save for the two combatant soldiers and Snake. Ocelot couldn't help but shake his head at the sight, especially once he'd caught the weapon piercing his advisor's armor. As if it weren't there, Snake stood and approached. Wordlessly, he moved to draw the blade from his chest, though was stopped by Ocelot, who waved a hand and nudged his own out of the way. With little hesitation, he allowed the other to take the helm.
"Be gentle."
"Of course."
One precise pull was all it took to free the blade, earning a sharp groan from the commander as he looked down at the small crimson blossom on his armor. Ocelot turned the knife over in his hand, watching as droplets of blood fell from its blade, painting the ground between them.
"These are bad for you, you know."
A curt nod, then the duo's attention turned to the lingering men.
"Morale has fallen," Snake began, watching as the two scrambled to stand at attention. Ocelot joined his side, shaking his head.
"No. They just need a mission; orders to follow. If you see someone stuck in the waiting room, you give 'em a job to do." He raised the bloodied blade, commanding their full attention. "You two! You just earned yourselves a week in the brig with deck-cleaning duty by day."
It was Snake's turn to protest, hand reaching out to take the blade from Ocelot.
"Wait." He brought the blade closer, ensuring the light illuminated the stained metal. "You've got some blood to pay me back for, first. Your CQC is sloppy—Come see me later for a lesson you won't forget."
His hand fell, and with it the blade, now pressed flat against his thigh as he wiped the blood onto the fabric of his pants. Now cleansed, he twirled the weapon, fingers pressed against the edges of the blade as its hilt extended toward the combatants. An invitation to claim their weapon. Its owner hurriedly stepped forward and claimed it, tucking it into its holster before hurriedly stepping back. Creating as much distance as he could, fearing what was to come should he linger much longer. Without another word, the combatant soldiers saluted the commanders before leaving the scene, walking side by side as if they had not planned to take the other's life just mere moments ago. Ocelot turned to Snake, who then turned to him.
"Well," the former began, gaze falling to the slit in the armor. "Morale taken care of. Should get that checked out, though. Hard to tell where it hit."
Another curt nod, and the two went their separate ways.
Butch's gaze rose from the pile of paperwork on his desk upon hearing the hull door creak, allowing mismatched eyes to land on the man in the doorway.
"Can't go a day without stoppin' by, huh, Boss?" The words were spoken sweetly, a southern drawl weaving between every syllable. He gestured for Snake to come closer, his other hand diving into the desk drawer and digging for the familiar feeling of nitrile. "Field work, or...?"
"On base."
The medic paused. "On base?"
"Mm. Fight club."
"Well, that'd explain it. Thought there were rules against weapons, though? Guess they changed that since the last time I'd—" A sheepish grin appeared. "—went to check up on the participants."
"Fitzpatrick."
"Hey now, I did check everyone out and make sure all's fit for duty. Just... may've placed a few bets of my own. That was before the rule change, 'course." Butch stood to guide Snake to the examination bed, a gloved hand patting the firm material.
As the commander sat, the lingering hand began to move toward the site of the bloom, though paused. Arms folded across the medic's chest. "You know I can't take a look with all that armor. No need to be shy, boss."
A coy wink was shot Snake's way, earning a small smile from the man as he shed the padded articles of clothing, exposing the fitted undershirt. And the clean cut, which began to ooze again with the extra movement of his torso. Butch sighed, stepping closer to apply pressure to the wound. He pressed firm, body half-turned so he could reach for the bottle of distilled water. As he turned back, he briefly set the bottle on the bed beside Snake, using his free hand to carefully raise the man's shirt. It was only as the hem rest just beneath the cloth, that Butch removed pressure from the wound to expose it fully. The medic brought the bottle up, twisting the cap off with his forefinger before beginning to cleanse the wound.
"Just had to aim for the most vital organ, huh?"
"Wanted to prove a point."
"Wanted to prove—Must not be hearin' you right, Boss, you did this? To yourself?" Butch's gaze rose to study Snake's features in disbelief. Even more so as he failed to find a sense of humor. "I... You know, I shouldn't even ask. Shouldn't entertain the thought. But fuck it, if you'll excuse the language, curiosity is gonna kill this cat. Just what in the hell motivated you to stab yourself over the heart?"
Just as punctly as he'd initially put it, Snake explained the series of events that had led him to Butch's doorstep. It was a noble effort, even if it'd been a dangerous stunt to have go wrong. If his armor was just a bit thinner, or if he'd moved too quickly... It wasn't a thought Butch felt like lingering on, and Snake saw that. Saw the way the worry etched itself on the medic's features as he rubbed a nice layer of antibiotic across the area of impact. A bionic hand rose to rest itself on his steady arm, expression softening as he caught the way those mismatched eyes flickered toward his. Slowly, a quaint smile appeared on the medic's face, his own heart fluttering in his chest.
If only he'd known the extent of the feelings shared in that moment.
He wouldn't, though, not as Butch's focus shifted back toward the task at hand. Deft hands made idle work of the dressing, then of the wet gloves that slid into the waste bin. Not even as Butch lingered by his side, leaning against the station's counter and watching Snake dress himself.
"Hey," Butch's voice was softer as he broke the silence. "Try not to get yourself killed, yeah? Don't wanna go puttin' me out of business, do ya?"
Snake couldn't help but laugh at the jab, giving his companion a pointed look as his own smile graced his features. "Plenty of other people here who need your help."
"Maybe, but..." Butch leaned closer, teasingly bringing a hand up to block his mouth from view of the entryway. He paused then leaned back, shaking his head. "Nah, if I told you you were my favorite patient, you'd probably take it as a challenge. Wanna see you around, but don't need ya gettin' reckless for little ol' me."
Butch glanced at the clock, then nodded his head toward the door.
"Now get goin' and rest up. You already know the rest of what I'm about to tell ya, but I'll say it anyway: Change the dressing throughout the day, come back if you notice any excessive itching, or any sudden changes in the skin surroundin'. Run out of bandages, antibiotic, etcetera, drop by or put in a requisition, and it'll be set aside for collection. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Good."