in the quiet loop. (solid snake x reader)

03 - got this

2 years later...

It didn't happen all at once.

Your old life didn't vanish in a single headline or gunshot. It unraveled slowly, like thread pulled from the seams. A name erased here, and a database wiped there. A camera feed that suddenly cut to static the moment it should've caught your face.

Now, two years in, you barely remember the version of you who used to wake up in a climate-controlled apartment, whose name was printed on agency lanyards, who had a favorite cafe three blocks from the office. That person had soft hands. You thought Metal Gear was a distant threat, not a hydra you'd have to hunt across continents with only two men and a satellite modern to your name.

Now, comfort was relative. The bed was a lopsided cot in a converted storage room of a safehouse that used to be a laundromat. The springs dug into your back every time you shifted, and the ceiling leaked when it rained. Sometimes you fell asleep to the low hum of Hal's laptop and the soft metallic click of Snake cleaning his rifle in the dark.

The three-course meals became vacuum-sealed MREs and energy bars with expiration dates you didn't want to read. You started rationing your caffeine, learned how to hotwire a backup generator, and memorized at least six aliases with matching passports. Authentic ramen turned into instant noodles eaten cold on a plastic crate in front of a flickering monitor.

You stopped flinching at gunfire. They relocated you under several fake names. You were the handler now, who's in charge of shuffling the three of you across maps like fugitives with a purpose. No location lasted more than a few weeks. The moment Snake even sensed surveillance, you'd pack the laptops, wipe the drives, and disappear before sunrise. You worked best when you were mobile.

Sometimes, you and Hal worked side by side on twin laptops in dimly lit rooms, trading whispers and flagged IP trails, pulling satellite pings and intercepted chatter about Metal Gear variants. Sleepless nights blurred into each other, illuminated only by the hum of blue light and the weight of what you were chasing. You learned to track warlords in code, to see nuclear whispers in gaps in chatter, and to read the shape of a lie before it reached the news.

Snake was always there, just not always near. He slept closest to the exits, kept his duffel packed, and smoked in silence outside every safehouse door like the sky might answer him. He rarely said more than needed, and rarely let his guard down long enough to be anything but mission-ready. There was something unspoken between you, always had been.

You felt it in the glances held too long, the moments you brushed past each other in tight quarters, and the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you wouldn't notice.

But nothing ever crossed that line. So instead, you let it live in the silence.

You repressed what curled inside your chest whenever he comes back from a smoke, swallowing the ache when he smoked alone instead of saying goodnight.

The nights were the hardest. You shared the room with Snake most nights. There were too many safehouses with only one lock that worked. Too many rented rooms where two exits were safer than one. Too many nights where you both knew sleep would be shallow, and better spent in reach of each other's voice.

The beds were never much. Sometimes, a mattress on the floor or two sleeping bags unrolled side by side. You never faced each other when you laid down, but you always knew he was there, feeling the soft shift of weight when he turned. The occasional heavy exhale from the mission before.

He never snored, but sometimes, he spoke. Not to you, though. You'd stir from a half-dream to hear his voice. Sometimes it was Meryl's name, Liquid, and even Gray Fox. You didn't speak when he did it. You never shook him, never reached out. He'd mutter, then go quiet. Sometimes his hand would twitch near the trigger of a gun that wasn't there, or he'd inhale like he was bracing for impact.