Laconic [ ocelot x reader ]

laconic

"Have you ever seen the film High Noon?"

Those were the first words he ever spoke to you. It confounded you, leaving your mouth agape as you stared into his eyes, hoping that it was a silly joke. After a while, you came to terms with it. He just liked western movies, ones you'd never heard of in your life. You're not even sure how he got access to a movie such as that, especially with the sour taste the west left in the Soviet Union's mouth. From your limited knowledge, you knew it was an American western film.

More often than not, he would come in, bruised and injured from combat. You were a nurse at the time, simply aiding the soldiers who came back from their missions. If there's one thing no one warned you of, it was the fact that Ocelot liked to talk. A lot.

"- and he's conflicted on what to do; leave the town with his wife or face the killer gang." His face twisted softly once he felt the cool liquid seeping into his wounds. A quiet hiss escaped his lips, the noise akin to a cat.

"Hmm." You dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth over the cuts littering his arms. The words that spilled from his mouth were certainly not ignored by you, but you had no way of showing or saying it. "And what does he end up doing?" You finally decided to ask, focus heavy on your brows.

Ocelot's face lights up just the slightest, his eyes glittering with interest. "Ah, that I can't tell you." A mischievous, cunning smirk pulls at his lips, complacent in his response to you. He lifts a gloved finger. "It'd be unfair if I spoiled it for you, you'd just have to watch it."

There was an urge to roll your eyes at his comment, but you only kept your face still. The slight pursing of your lips gave it away.

He decided not to say anything else, but now his eyes started to follow you. You didn't mind it at first. That was before the questions started. The prying barrage of questions that probed you.

"Where are you from? You're not Russian."

"How did you learn to do this?"

"Why are you a doctor?"

"Do you like western films?"

Ultimately, they were all left unanswered, because you interrupted him after the umpteenth question. "I need you to take your uniform off. You have more injuries, no?"

Ocelot stopped in his tracks, almost giving you a look of indignance for your abruptness. He silently complied, taking off his coat and his shirt. There were minor bruises and cuts on his chest, but they were unlikely to leave any scars.

In his eyes, the exchange felt a bit awkward, yet strangely intimate. Your fingers gingerly hovered over his bloodied skin, cleaning and dressing it with the utmost of care. Sincerely, Ocelot hadn't felt a touch comparable to yours. From what he could observe, you were around the same age as him, or maybe even a bit younger, but you acted like an old woman, austere and stony.

"There." You finished up the last of his wounds with a small, satisfactory smile. You stepped away from him, shifting closer to your desk, your hands sifting through the stack of papers scattered all over.

...That was it? It certainly felt short. Ocelot looked at you with furrowed brows, an inkling of dismay filling him. He stood up and dressed himself quietly, being careful around his now patched injuries. He lifted a finger, as if to say something, before you spoke.

"By the way, you should be more careful on your missions." Your eyes were glued to the papers, cutting all across to read the words printed on them. "If you continue being as reckless as you are, you'll only kill yourself."

Ah. You were also painfully blunt. A scowl quickly replaced his clueless expression. He huffed, turning away from you. "You underestimate me." He spat with narrowed eyes; his mood now sour as he walked out of the medical facility without another word.