The sun barely rises this time of year. Shadow Moses stays cloaked in fog; its industrial complexes all look the same, with their small windows and ceiling strips of fluorescent light. The nights bleed into the days, and the world outside the base has little to no bearing on the way things operate inside.

The security cams flick between the different warehouses, the gangways and the frozen courtyard outside. Liquid sets his boots on top of the desk and stretches back in the swiveling chair. He’s alone for once, since Ocelot is in the medical bay. Camera feeds show him live footage of all of the empty hallways Snake has managed to avoid.

Like the devil, Snake must know when he’s being thought of; the burst transmission rings in his ear. “Master.”

There have been things about this situation even he couldn’t expect, one of them being the realization that those two syllables affect Liquid more than he likes to admit. “What is it, Snake?”

“Can you tell me about the lichen growing on some of these interior walls? Shouldn’t the facility be in better shape?”

Snake’s excuses for calling him are getting even thinner. Liquid crosses his arms and wracks his mind for something to say about lichen he hasn’t already said.

“It’s to be expected. It won’t cause structural damage, so it’s nothing to worry about. Alaskan fauna is the most versatile in the world. It’ll grow anywhere it finds enough nutrients and moisture. Life… finds a way.”

“I guess so.” There’s silence for long enough that Liquid figures Snake just forgot to hang up, but then Snake adds, “I’d feel better if you were here.” His gravelly voice drops even further in pitch. “It’d be just like old times, huh?”

Something about his tone is different, and Liquid casts around for what Miller would say to that, settling on, “You and me both.”

“Remember the last time we infiltrated a place like this?” Snake exhales, a rumbling sound that runs under Liquid’s skin. “When we…”

Liquid chuckles darkly, a rumble out of his chest, unexpectedly genuine. “Shouldn’t you keep your mind on the mission?”

“You say that like you’ve not been encouraging me for the last five minutes,” Snake says. “Or the last ten years.”

His voice is so tender, even in its roughness, that it makes Liquid angry. What doubt remained in Liquid’s mind about the history between these two vanishes. Snake is such a waste. Falling into bed with his mentor is so cliche it’s laughable. He's overheard Snake flirting shamelessly with Meryl, but by God, does the man roll over for any FOXHOUND affiliate he encounters?

Liquid chuckles darkly, trying to remember what that had sounded like in Miller’s audiotapes. What memories Liquid has of Miller are decades old; he had to do research to figure out how to impersonate the Miller of the 21st century. He’s changed since Mother Base. They all have.

“Fair,” he says. The front of his pants begin to feel uncomfortably tight. Liquid runs his palm across the zipper seam and inhales, hoping it’s too quiet to be picked up on the codec.

An overly optimistic move: Snake mutters, “Having trouble, are we,” sounding more smug than he has any right to be.

From the sounds of things, trying to avoid this would bring up more suspicion than going along with it would. “Switch to another frequency,” Liquid says, and Snake makes some rumbling sound of assent.

Visions flash through Liquid’s mind, approximations of the memories Snake must be recalling on the other end of the line: Snake blowing Miller in a safehouse in the dark, on his knees for his Master, his perfectly symmetrical lips rendered spit-slick and obscene. He would have liked that, on the floor like an obedient dog. He takes orders too well not to. Miller probably fucked Snake while they were out on the road, too, rough and harsh in the back of a Jeep. Maybe once in a while they slept together in some pantomime of normalcy, in a bed with the lights on, face to face, kissing each other on the mouth and sharing a smoke in the sheets afterwards.

They make the switch, and there’s a beat before Snake mutters, “Master—what—”

“I want you on your knees,” Liquid says, fighting to keep his speech casual and American. He bites the side of his cheek and grinds the heel of one of his boots against the floor. “You’re going to take my dick and be quiet about it.”

Snake inhales, sharp and winded. “Please.”

“You’ve wanted this for days, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet and raspy, and it echoes slightly, like he’s in an enclosed space. Liquid runs through the schematics of the facility in his mind and tries to puzzle out which storage closet or bathroom Snake is holed up in before he decides it doesn’t matter. They’ll be face to face before long. In the background, the heavy boots of Genome Soldiers pass by the door in the hallway beyond.

“Just let go, Snake. I know you’re choking for it. I’ll take care of you.” Liquid’s the only one who’s ever been honest with him, even though this entire conversation is a lie. All the lies are just means to an end, for Liquid as much as anyone, but it’s fitting that Liquid should be the one to pay him these small pieces of respect. There’s something real about it, though Snake doesn’t know yet.

Snake makes a guttural gasping sound that does sound like a choke. Liquid would like to grip Snake's jaw in his hand, force Snake’s mouth open and stick his fingers inside, skin against the warmth of his tongue. Liquid would fuck Snake against the cold steel floor, pressing his back into the dirt that a hundred different soldiers' boots have ground onto the metal, and Snake would suck his fingers and take it, he's so good at taking it, he takes whatever FOXHOUND and the government dogs throw at him—how fitting is it that Liquid will be the one to put him down for good?

“What do I do?”

“I’m sure you can think of something,” Liquid says, and it doesn’t come out as smoothly as he’d like. He checks over his shoulder to make sure he’s alone and then begins jerking himself off in earnest. He bites his lip and idly considers whether he should tell Ocelot that Snake and Miller were fucking. Ocelot was the one to kill him, smothering him with poison gas inside his home, but Liquid lets himself imagine for a second what Miller would have looked like beaten down to the ground, blood dripping from a bruise across his lip, a crooked tooth. Liquid would have taken the opportunity to observe his mannerisms in these final moments of writhing. Miller would struggle for air and grasp at Liquid’s arms as his gaze fills with confused recognition. Life would leave him, fifty-something and strong but not strong enough, as he choked under Liquid’s hands, that grip strong enough to crush his windpipe—Liquid tugs at his dick and the back of his head falls back against the back of the chair, throat exposed to the empty room, his own come covering his fist.

“I—ah—I better get through this soon.” Even at a time like this, Snake’s voice is unmistakably his own, though they look identical in nearly every other way. He doesn’t say whether this refers to the mission or their codec rendezvous, and Liquid supposes it doesn’t really matter. He exhales long and slow through his nostrils.

“What are you waiting for, then. Better finish your mission,” Liquid says. “I expect you to hurry back.”

“Yes sir,” Snake replies, sounding too cocky for someone who must be on the edge of coming inside a sneaking suit, and then hangs up.

Liquid shoulder-checks once more, then wipes his hand on his pant leg.