Archive of Our Own

“Poor cunt’s only got about six teeth in his mouth,” Ghost complained, voice coming in a whisper of static and a tinny voice. “Fact they’ve still got him running their errands at all has to be elder abuse.”

MacTavish, who was currently making his way through the remains of the building, shot an incredulous look over at the only other soldier with him, Shogun. A sergeant, a little skinny, with bright blue eyes and brown hair cropped short, he met MacTavish’s look with a little shake of his head. They were moving through the buildings, an ex-base of operations after a successful mission had cleared it of its owners only a few days before; it was raining outside, cold, and their footsteps echoed in the empty concrete building.

“He’s not running the errands though, is he? That’s our job,” Ghost’s partner for the mission, Aston replied, voice crackling over the radio. “Orders of a senile.”

“Keep the comms clear, lads,” MacTavish cut in, as he practically heard Ghost make to reply.

“Surely you don’t agree with it, though?” Ghost replied to him, like he hadn’t heard what he said. “Sir, Major Davies still has us doing morse code drills for when the Germans fly over—”

Intel gathering was always so harmless that the conversations always divulged into the most needless topics they could find. Six empty buildings to sweep, two teams of two. Aston replied something, and Shogun laughed from behind MacTavish, quickly stifling it as he turned.

“Whether Davies is going senile isn’t exactly a current concern, Riley,” MacTavish said after a moment, “wouldn’t you rather focus on the mission here, remind the Major how old he is later?”

“Don’t think I can shout that loud, sir,” Ghost replied, a flicker of humour in his voice audible through the radio. “Hearing’s going too. Fact he hasn’t retired yet is beyond me.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” MacTavish shook his head incredulously, and kept walking through the building, gun aloft. Aston said something to Shogun, who spluttered in protest, and Ghost huffed a very quiet laugh. They kept walking.

Hour 0

The thing about Ghost was that he was an immovable object; not poor intel, nor mission failure, nor outright bad luck ever really shook him in the way it might have done other soldiers. It was one of the things that MacTavish picked on immediately, the silent impression that there was always a fight to be won, the inherent daring to everything he did.

But it was just one thing too many. The mission had gone to shit, only completing the objective and collecting the laptop by what was little more than luck, Shogun— the sergeant he had been assigned with— had damn near bled out, and MacTavish had dragged him to exfil only to find it delayed. Ghost had been on the mission, found the laptop and scouted ahead as he and Aston supported the dead weight that was Shogun, and he was there again in the rec room, two hours later. Aston had returned to his room; the same call at the same time every Tuesday evening, he was lucky to still be able to make it, and so MacTavish was the last of their four into the rec room.

The room was bright; the sun had set, and it was fluorescent lights, blue white and buzzing overhead. There was the thrum of conversation, throbbing about his temples, and someone laughed, the sound echoing and driving a wave of violent frustration up his shoulders, pushing his hands into fists before he could stop himself. Unclenching them, he took his seat by one of his men, a redheaded sergeant who went by Splinter, wiping at his palms uncomfortably before remembering the mission report he had completely forgotten as he had been so preoccupied with getting the blood off his hands.

“For fuck’s sake…

“Captain?” 

“Nevermind, sergeant,” MacTavish sighed, standing up. “Fucking admin’s going to put me in the grave faster than any o’ these missions.” 

“Mission report for this one?” Ghost asked, from the soldier’s other side. He was sat leant back with a plain balaclava on; his boots were perpetually covered in mud, caked to the soles, and were balanced on the low table in front of them like he owned it. “Going to take bloody ages filling all that shit out.”

“What happened?” Splinter asked, eyebrows furrowing as he turned back to Ghost. He shifted his feet a little, and a small clump of mud fell onto the table. 

“What d’you think? Went tits up. Johnson said Shogun’s on medical leave.” 

“Shogun?”

“Said he was lucky to be,” Ghost added for good measure. “The rebar went right through.”

“Ghost,” MacTavish said, voice testing. Ghost shifted again, another clump of dirt falling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Splinter replied, with a low whistle. “Think he’ll be discharged?”

The noise of the rec room didn’t let up, a constant thrum pounding on the insides of his skull. Ghost was gratingly nonchalant, like Shogun hadn’t been far too cold in his arms not half an hour ago. He’d stopped talking to the end, murmuring and moaning— they always called for their mothers, MacTavish had noted. Always their mothers.

“He has a wife, doesn’t he?” Another lieutenant, green eyes, whose name wasn’t coming to him, cut in, with a half glance over. “Shogun, I mean?” 

“Think so.” 

“Poor lass.” 

“Shouldn’t’ve stood there,” Ghost shrugged, earning him a light shove from the other lieutenant. More dirt on the table. “Now it’s her problem as well as his.” 

“Ghost,” MacTavish said again, and Ghost gave him half a look, not even fully looking at him. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did— if their hearts bled for every sorry soldier, they’d kill themselves before they ever step foot on the battlefield, and dark humour wasn’t even anything new— but it was the last thing in a long, long day and the wound was far too tender. 

“Where exactly was it?” Splinter asked, leaning forward curiously, and Ghost gestured vaguely through his shoulder, pushing two fingers into the entry point. He could see it on the way in, blood coagulating around the turning metal, Shogun wailing about it—

“Fuckin’ hell,” Splinter sighed, “must’ve hurt going through.”

“You go into shock,” Ghost shook his head, “you don’t feel it properly. Imagine it on the way out. That’s where it’d hurt.” 

The sound of metal pulling on flesh, slick and wet, was suddenly louder than the conversation, louder than the buzz of the lights, only drowned out by the way Shogun had screamed, shrill, eyes wide and desperate—

“Lieutenant,” MacTavish cut in, heart pounding a savage beat, and he wondered if it was obvious on his face, obvious like the blood on his palms, but Ghost hardly looked over, hardly seemed to care—

“What?”

MacTavish looked directly at him, eyes narrowed, something like anger pounding in his temples.

“What was that?” 

A moment of quiet; finally, a moment of reprieve from the noise. Splinter had noticed the sudden shift, and glanced at the look on MacTavish’s face before hurriedly looking busy with a bottle on the table. The anger had him razor focused on Ghost, like a predator on prey. 

“Asked what it was,” Ghost continued, tilting his head to look over at him, resting his head against a hand. “What you were saying.” 

“Watch how you speak to me, lieutenant.”

“Don’t think I was being particularly disrespectful. Sir,” he tacked on, with a flicker of ill placed humour, and MacTavish’s temper flared.

“Ghost.”

“Soap,” Ghost replied, and that was it. MacTavish was on his feet, hands in fists, and it was only for a second that Ghost’s eyes seemed to widen, before it was replaced with the same unbearable humour. 

“My office,” he said, turning to go.

“Yes, sir.” 

MacTavish turned so fast Ghost staggered back, and the mud from his boots fell onto the floor. This time, the careful look in his eyes stayed. The few soldiers around them watched the exchange, eyebrows raised, but looked away when MacTavish glared. Ghost followed him to the office, always a few steps behind. 

His office was in the corner of the building; as he arrived, he seemed to remember the mission reports, and felt something tick unbearably in his head. He wanted to sleep it all off, wanted to push it all to tomorrow. Behind him, Ghost strode in with all the attitude of a student called to his headteacher’s office. The phone on his desk blinked red with waiting calls, and he struggled with the urge to groan, to scream, and he wiped his palms on the rough fabric of his shirt again. Pushing several papers from his desk, he took a seat in his chair, snatching a pen and clicking it several times before slamming it down. Ghost stood at attention across the desk, but there was a lazy, distracted look in his eye.

“I’m not going to stand for any sort of insubordination, lieutenant.” 

“I wasn’t being insubordinate—”

“Just be quiet,” MacTavish advised, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Ghost, I’m not asking, I’m telling you. You’re insubordinate and out of line, and if this behaviour continues on the mission tomorrow— oh, for fuck’s sake,” MacTavish sighed, remembering the mission the next day, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Apparently unaffected, Ghost just shifted, foot to foot.

“I don’t think I’m being disrespectful.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think,” MacTavish replied, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again. “Ghost, I don’t know how you passed basic but speak with some fucking respect or I’ll reassign you.”

The mission the next day had him and Ghost on recon for six days in a safehouse in Slovenia. High value target, something about the weather systems to be careful for that he physically couldn’t put together now, not when Shogun’s blood was still in the crevices of his palms and his phone was still blinking with unread messages. 

He needed his diary. He had had it with him on the mission, and then it had gone in his vest, and he had taken it out on the way back; and then it had been with his clean clothes outside the bathroom, and he had cleaned his hands, and he knew he hadn’t left it there but it hadn’t been with him when he went to the rec room— had he stopped by his room? But he needed it immediately— just needed to stop for a second, to think. The light on his phone blinked incessantly, and he realised it was very likely a waiting call for Shogun, and he paused guiltily, looking around to find the official report he’d have to fill out about his injury. But what he needed was his diary, and to finalise mission details for tomorrow, and for Shogun to be alright— and somehow, he was surprised to look up and find Ghost standing exactly where he had left him, eyebrows raised, hands still behind his back. 

“You’ll reassign me?” Ghost repeated, eyes narrowed.

“If I have to,” MacTavish replied after a moment, more confused by his reaction than anything. His hands hesitated over his desk for a second, before stacking all the papers of the most recent mission into one pile, and everything else to the other. He found his diary on his computer, black blending in with black.

“You’re serious?” 

“Yes,” MacTavish sighed, snatching up his diary, “yes, I’m bloody serious, lieutenant. It’s not acceptable.”

“That’s all it took?” 

“Yeah, that’s all it fucking takes!” MacTavish snapped, raking a hand through the mohawk. It was getting long again, unbearable against his fingertips. “If the rank system is such a mystery to you, Ghost, I don’t know what to tell you. If you’re continuously insubordinate, you’re out. That’s how it goes.”

He exhaled, hard, looking about for the pen he had had as he had sat down. Ghost was quiet, apparently mulling over his words, like he still had something to say. MacTavish gave him several moments of quiet before getting impatient.

“What is it? Spit it out.”

“I don’t think Shepherd’ll appreciate it if you reassign me, sir,” Ghost replied, tone so careful it bordered on tentative. A muscle twitched in MacTavish’s jaw.

“Does it look like I care what Shepherd’ll do to me?”

“Not to you. Sir.” 

“Ghost,” MacTavish sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, diary in hand. “Listen. I don’t give a fuck. If you’re incompatible, you’re out. We’ve got respect in the ranks for a damn good reason, and—…”

He trailed off on the look in Ghost’s eyes— something inscrutable there. His eyes were downturned, fixed somewhere at his shoulder, hands clasped tightly behind his back. When he didn’t finish, Ghost looked up.

“And…” MacTavish struggled with his train of thought for a moment, “if you want to stay, you’ll do good to ease off on the insubordination.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back to his shoulder. MacTavish hadn’t been expecting him to agree so easily, for whatever reason— he blinked, more surprised than anything. 

“Alright. Well. Alright, then. Aren’t you going?” 

“You haven’t dismissed me, sir.” 

“Oh. Alright, dismissed.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

He didn’t know why it had him feeling so wrongfooted. Nevertheless, Ghost left, and he picked up the pen again. Instead of going to his diary, he went to the first of the forms on the mission report, pen hovering over the boxes.

Hour 9

Shogun was a little worse for the wear, but alive, well and in good spirits when MacTavish visited. Far too pleased with the five weeks of medical leave, and already making several jokes about how attractive his wife would find the new scar, MacTavish left the medical wing in high spirits— helped, in no small part, by six hours of sleep and a full meal. He hadn’t run into Ghost; unsurprising, as he’d never met someone who lived up to his namesake as much as he did— but he wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t missed him. The frustration, in hindsight, while not unfounded, was misplaced; if he had had a problem, he should have communicated it properly. But he’d been frazzled, exhausted, and the palms of his hands were cracked from the poor hand soap on base. It hadn’t quite left him; the sleep had been interrupted, and the sound of metal on metal grated something violent in him, but it was alright, he had decided, or it would be, which was close enough. The walk to the hangar was the short route, and he readjusted his diary in his vest. Recon had the risk of going wrong, but the high chance was it being six days of lying around, noting sparse entry and exits in the thick snow, if there even was any— with Ghost. Definitely worse ways to spend six days. He nodded at the flight staff as he looked around the hangar for him, spotting him distracted in one corner, leaning against the wall, watching the aircraft. MacTavish lifted an arm to wave. 

“Ghost!”

Ghost stood up straight immediately, turning to him, before nodding and approaching. 

“Captain MacTavish, sir.”

“You don’t have to do all that,” MacTavish huffed a laugh, but Ghost just blinked.

“All what, sir?” 

“Ghost.”

“Yes, sir?”

It felt like it should have been a joke; everything from the way he stood at attention, to the careful gaze, to the sir’s tagged neatly on the end of his sentences like a particularly tenacious private. But he was fully serious— MacTavish could see it in his eyes. Something about it had him feeling particularly uncomfortable, and he shook it off.

“At ease.”

“Thank you,” Ghost nodded, unclasping his hands.

“Onto the plane, then?” MacTavish suggested, with an attempt at a smile. Ghost nodded once, and waited for him to board. 

The plane ride was silent; not that Ghost was particularly talkative normally, but it was completely quiet, Ghost’s eyes ahead. His eyes were fixed firmly on the pilot’s door, only occasionally readjusting the harness that kept him to the netting behind him. 

He supposed it was acceptable conduct. But the whine of the engines had him thinking of some other conversations they had had on planes; one particular time, a young Marine who just seemed to not stop talking, not taking any hints nor orders to stop, until Ghost had bet him ten pounds that he couldn’t say the letter e for the remainder of the flight. He had then asked him about an admittedly interesting mission he had been on, watching him stutter and stammer through the rest of the flight as he struggled to answer. The grin at the way he was suffering had had his eyes folded into little half moons above the mask, and he had glanced over at MacTavish victoriously as the Marine had just handed over the only twenty dollar note he had, spending the rest of the flight in sullen silence. 

He wasn’t even looking at him now. There was nothing to fault about his conduct, he thought sullenly, sitting back in his seat in an impressive impression of the Marine. Maybe a little formal by SAS standards, but by no means anything to complain over. He wiped his hands on his thighs, and sat back, waiting for the flight.

Hour 15

The trek to the safehouse was in the same miserable silence; through the snowy fields, in single file to hide their footsteps. Their safehouse was an abandoned hunter’s cabin over the side of a mountain that took them comfortably over the base by the river. No fires for risk of them noticing the smoke, but they were armed with electric heaters and the very best thermal wear they could get. The sky was white, threatening snow.

“Not goin’ to complain about the weather?” He asked into the air behind him. He was quite sure Ghost took humour in adhering to stereotypes, especially when they were with international teams— MacTavish had watched him rant for a full five minutes about earl grey tea to a particularly panicked Navy SEAL, as if Ghost had ever done anything but reach for whatever was available in the kitchen. “Not very British of you, lieutenant.”

“Don’t need to tell you it’s bloody Baltic, captain, so long as you still have eyes,” Ghost immediately snapped back, seemingly unable to help it, before he seemed to pause.

MacTavish couldn’t see his expression shift, but he could almost imagine it; the way his eyes would harden, the way his shoulders would brace. The sudden silence was cold, even in the sub-zero conditions. 

“Only s’posed to get colder,” MacTavish replied after a moment of no reply. “Storm’s coming in tomorrow or day after next.” 

“Are… you sure that’s accurate, sir?” Ghost asked, steps almost silent behind him, barely crunching over the snow. “Looks to be sooner than that.”

“Maybe,” MacTavish replied, glaring at the sky. There was a breeze in the air, but he had hoped it would be later rather than sooner. He stopped walking to analyse the weather, and Ghost staggered to a quick stop behind him, not even a word to suggest he was at all annoyed by it— in the absence of Ghost’s usual manner, he found himself missing it. The sky was white, but a thick, endless sort of white that showed no signs of abating; a thick sort of heaviness seemed to settle in the air. 

“Better get a move on, then,” MacTavish said after a moment, not turning so as to not disrupt the footsteps. Knowing full well Ghost had only stopped for him, he tried, one more time, for a little stab at humour. “Hurry up, then, not got all day.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” 

He paused for only a moment longer, before he pressed his lips together as he kept walking. Snow started falling; big, fat flakes that floated on the air and with the breeze. 

The apology, the passivity, the general lack of the usual daring he’d come to associate with Ghost. All of it bothered him in some way that he couldn’t even put into words. The rest of the trek was quiet, the same sort of silence of the flight. 

Hour 22

“Sorted the snow?”

“Set to melt, sir.”

“And the radio link?”

“Set up and confirmed. It’ll suffer through the snow, but it should hold.”

“I’ve got the bed sorted, too,” MacTavish replied, “camera’s set up, as if we’re goin’ to catch anything through this.” 

“D’you want me to do anything else, sir?” Ghost asked, looking over at him. MacTavish met his gaze, and shook his head. It was past sunset, and the snow showed no signs of stopping; instead, the view from the one dusty window was a near constant stream of white against the inky black. Showing up before the storm had the tactical advantage of not missing any sort of movement in or out of the base— but safehouse was a pretty kind description for the building they were in. Wind wailed through the rafters and under the door, and the windows rattled, cold air escaping through the gaps in the rotting wood they had been boarded up with. The slats of the wooden floor were beginning to rot, and squeaked as he walked over them, looking to the kitchen. The electric heaters glowed orange, and they had two lamps between them for light— six pans of snow were already melting ahead of them, the sound of dripping water coming through the cabin. 

“May as well sort some food,” MacTavish yawned, with a glance over at his watch. Taking shifts to sleep were more of a pleasantry than anything, as anyone who managed to make the trek to the cabin in the thick snow may as well have deserved to kill them, but the bedding was set up over the one rickety couch in the middle of the room, and there was a chair and a table set up by the window for whoever was on watch. Ghost nodded once as he spoke, and immediately stepped to the kitchen.

“I didn’t mean you had to,” MacTavish frowned, but Ghost was already taking out the MREs to heat up. Conceding, he joined him, stepping into the tiled corner that made up the safehouse kitchen; they were blue and white once, but age and dust had them chipped and grey. Ghost worked methodically— he’d turn the heater to its highest, place the hot plate over it and set the water in the pan to boil. Place the first packet for sixty or so seconds after removing it from its cardboard, turn it low, remove the packet, repeat for the same packet from the next MRE. There was something oddly satisfying about it, and MacTavish watched, before turning to look for some of the coffee he had stashed along.

“D’you want some coffee?”

“M’alright, captain.” 

The snow had settled on his gloves, and melted in the heat of his palms; the sensation had become unbearable very quickly, and as soon as the cabin had heated up, he’d ripped them off. It didn’t change the fact it was still very cold, and he warmed his hands over the hot plate he’d set up to boil water. Oddly, he kept expecting to leave red handprints on everything he touched— the cold had the cracked skin of his palms almost painful. 

It wasn’t lost on him that he was lucky to be standing where he was. If the rebar had fallen a few inches to the right, into his chest, or if the bomb had only been a little closer to him, MacTavish would have been doing something completely different. 

He wiped at his hands again, the feeling of fabric against his palms almost painful. He hadn’t forgotten the sound of Shogun screaming as they had pulled it out, the sound of metal on slick flesh. The way the sound had shook with sobs, the harsh gasps of air he had taken immediately after, eyes wide and unseeing. He didn’t know why it had bothered him so much; it wasn’t the first near death he’d experienced, and it wouldn’t have been the last. It was just the absolute helplessness of it— the way the blood just hadn’t stopped gushing as he applied pressure, the way Shogun had writhed, the warm, tacky feeling of it. He was wiping at his palms again, over the rough fabric of his trousers, and then over the fabric of his sleeves— 

All of a sudden, he felt warm plastic over the back of his hands, and blinked back to the present, batting it away— Ghost retracted the packet of the MRE he had just heated from his hand, looking up at him carefully.

“What was that for?” MacTavish asked, eyebrows furrowed. At once, he seemed to realise the water he had put to boil had been boiling for several moments; with a spoon of instant coffee, he tipped it into the only available cup. Ghost was still watching, and then turned back to his meals.

“Nothing, sir.” 

He pushed the heated meal towards him, waiting for him to take it. MacTavish did, meeting his eyes, powder blue and reflecting the warm orange light. 

“You’ll feel better once you eat something, sir. I can take the first shift if you’d prefer it.”

“What d’you want to do?” MacTavish asked, opening up the packets of food and placing them into the metal packaging. 

“Whatever you want, sir.” 

MacTavish gritted his jaw, and turned away.

“Wake me up in six hours, then.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He hated it, he decided, there and then. Respect amongst the ranks be damned.

Hour 29

“Thought I said to wake me up?” 

Managing to sneak up on Ghost was always quite impressive; MacTavish hadn’t expected him to startle so easily, but he did— the cup of coffee he had been nursing spilled over his gloves as he sat up from where his feet were balanced on another rickety chair, turning so quickly from the window it must have hurt. He took a breath on realising who it was, before waving the tea from his hand. 

“Sorry, sir. Got distracted.”

“By what?” MacTavish asked, sitting up fully, the blanket falling off of him as he did. He slept in several layers of thermal wear, but the heaters had finally heated the space to something just shy of comfortable, and the couch was surprisingly nice. “Just snow out there.”

“I know, captain. It’s just…” 

Ghost’s eyes softened slightly as he looked over at the snow. His eyelashes were illuminated white from the pale light of the window; as MacTavish blinked the sleep from his eyes, he could even see the falling snow in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said again, when he didn’t finish the sentence. “We can switch now, sir.” 

It was a little before he was going to sleep that Ghost came up to him. He had a new cup of coffee, sitting by the table they had pulled to the window with his feet propped on the other chair. He stifled a yawn, looking out at the practical wall of white that was their view outside, and gave a little sorry glance at their camera for all the good it was doing. He was bundled in a thick jacket, gloves on, muffler pulled up to his nose; the thermometer they had placed in the windowsill kept dropping further, and their heaters whined on.

“Captain?”

“Riley.”

Ghost had taken off the outermost layers, still in that balaclava— MacTavish suddenly wondered if he’d sleep in it, if it’d keep him warm. He seemed to struggle for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, before reaching into a pocket and pulling out a pair of gloves, placing them on the table.

“I’ve got gloves,” MacTavish blinked after a moment, not taking them. 

“Your hands are clean, sir.” 

MacTavish looked up at him, eyes narrowing as he struggled to work out his tone. Ghost was tired but standing at attention, and the way he stood, the light reflected in his eyes like they were unending. 

“I know.”

“They’re waterproof, sir. It’s— the texture of the snow, isn’t it?” 

“No idea what you’re on about, Riley.”

Ghost nodded once, jaw moving like he was chewing the inside of his cheek. He glanced at the gloves again, and then up at MacTavish.

“They’re there if you want them, captain.”

He was wearing the same type of gloves, MacTavish realised; dark leather, worn knuckle guards in dark grey. He glanced back up at Ghost again, who wasn’t meeting his eyes again.

“Is it— the texture of the snow for you?” He asked, curious. Ghost shook his head.

“Dirt, sir.” 

He waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and his eyes fell to his shoulder again, reflecting the snow. 

“That all?”

“Affirmative.”

“To bed, then, I’ll wake you up in six hours.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Riley,” MacTavish called after him, as Ghost lifted the blankets to slip inside. He turned around to him for a moment, before turning fully.

“Yes, sir?”

There was a pause, as MacTavish looked for the words. Ghost watched, oddly patient, as he struggled to piece together what exactly the issue was. Finally, he gave up.

“Thank you,” he said, lifting the gloves and tugging his own on to replace them. He was still in the balaclava, but his eyes ticked up into what may have been a smile; the next moment, he turned and got into bed. 

Hour 31

Nightmares may as well be listed by the side of the wage and benefits page of those Army pamphlets they liked to hand out around schools. He’d learnt to block it out, of course, but there was something inherently wrong about sipping cold coffee while someone whimpered behind you. Ghost, at least, stifled the sound into what could have been the crook of his elbow— he’d taken off the mask and MacTavish hadn’t turned around for three hours. He knew it was a little bit unreasonable, knew the high chance was Ghost wouldn’t care so much, but it felt like betrayal, and so he hadn’t. 

The snow fell, and Ghost made a short choked sound, like no one had ever taught him to cry properly. MacTavish glared at the coffee, black like tar in the half light. 

“Ghost,” he called out to the window, listening to him shift. “Come on, Riley, you’re alright.”

He didn’t reply, made a short noise like he was about to scream, before a hand clasped to his mouth, and he sat up so fast the blanket fell against the wood in a dull heap. He was breathing like he had run a marathon, and choked on another sob, pushing it into his hand again. 

“Riley?”

No answer, and MacTavish finally turned; Ghost had his back to him, the curve of his back and the back of his head visible. His head was in his hands, and he realised he was shaking, a fine tremble in his shoulders. 

Blond. MacTavish filed that information away for later. 

“Ghost,” MacTavish said again, and Ghost finally seemed to hear him, going still. There was a short pause, and then in one movement, he wiped his face on his hands and then raked his hands through his hair, before picking up the mask and tugging it on. He didn’t turn.

“Sorry about that, captain.” 

“Stop.”

“I know, sir, I’m sorry.”

“No— Ghost, stop. Stop whatever this is,” MacTavish replied, chair squeaking as he turned. “I don’t know— I just— for fuck’s sake, Ghost,” he groaned, scrubbing at his forehead and then pushing his hands into his forehead. It suddenly occurred to him he hadn’t been bothered by his hands for the past three hours; somehow, that fact only made him angrier. Ghost had only turned a little, only the very tips of his eyelashes visible. 

“I don’t know what you want, sir,” Ghost replied, voice very quiet. 

“I want you back, Riley.”

“I want to stay in the 141,” he replied, like a counterpoint. 

MacTavish gritted his jaw, and looked back at his coffee. It shook in his hands, and the cup was stained brown with it. 

“Go back to sleep, lieutenant.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Ghost—”

“Not— not after—…” Ghost sighed, and put his head back in his hands, the rest of the sentence trailing off. MacTavish waited, and then lifted his feet from the other chair, his boots tapping against the floor. He turned back to the window, avoiding his own eyes in the reflection. The snow had eased slightly, and he could see the orange of the lights on in the base by the river. No one had arrived, as it was still very much in the night, but the next moment, there were a few very quiet steps and Ghost dropped in the chair next to him, folding his arms over the table. He could feel his eyes on him, watching, almost calculating, and didn’t look over. Finally, Ghost seemed to settle, and very quietly, rested his head over his arms, eyes still on the snow outside. 

MacTavish sat back, and took a sip of the coffee, chemical and cold. The temperature outside had plateaued somewhere around -10°C, the snow frosted on the glass, and MacTavish hooked a foot around one leg of Ghost’s chair and pulled him a little closer. He didn’t protest; he lifted his head and looked over at him, eyebrows a little furrowed, and MacTavish just looked at him until he settled himself over his arms again. Eventually, his breathing fell rhythmic, the heat radiating off of him where their thighs were pushed together.

Hour 35

The very starts of dawn were barely visible over the horizon, and he’d only noticed it because the sky was a little lighter than it had been an hour ago, and both the water and the smoke from the base were reflecting a paler blue than anything he could see. The cup was empty, coffee staining the ceramic.

“Ghost,” he asked, out of the blue.

“Yes, sir?” 

So he had been awake. He hadn’t moved from where he had pushed them closer in sleep; MacTavish supposed it was something to do with conserving body heat, and hadn’t moved earlier.

“Yesterday. What did you mean when you said Shepherd not appreciating you bein’ reassigned?” 

Ghost didn’t immediately reply, propping his chin on his arms, and then reaching to scrub at the sleep in his eyes.

“You know I’m legally dead?” Ghost asked, looking up at him. The pale light reflected off pale skin, and MacTavish could see the shiner skin of a scar through his eyebrows, only the very bottom of it visible under his mask. 

“I do.”

“S’a lot of trouble,” Ghost continued, “keeping it that way. Sorting international teams, or hospital stays, all that. Things like leave, or downtime— he doesn’t base it on my performance, but he’s less likely to… well, you know.” 

Ghost shrugged, the movement short. With a tiny shake of his head, he kept going.

“Try not to cause too many problems. Mouth always gets me in trouble. Always has.” 

“Don’t think that’s legal, Riley.”

“Doesn’t matter. Laws protect the living, sir.” 

The rubber knuckle guards made quite a satisfying sound against the wood table, and Ghost’s gloves smelled a little like gun oil. Silence had settled like it did after a snowstorm, when the snow swallowed all sound. 

It wasn’t unheard of, obviously; unethical business practices was the more joking descriptor his colleagues would use to describe what were basically open secrets in the functioning of the SAS. Ghost’s file was practically just several black bars of redacted information, and anyone he asked gave him the whole spiel of classified, need to know, irrelevant. Still, they’d picked him up from what was apparently a month-long rogue op in the middle of a Mexican desert, the dust still settling— over what, exactly, he was never clued in on. But it was a little convenient, how they’d found him, how no one had corrected the situation, the way it was all tied up neatly with a bow and Ghost had landed on his feet, gun in his arms and the next mission plans waiting. This, he supposed, was the ugly underside. 

“S’why I wanted to stay,” Ghost admitted very quietly into his arms. MacTavish turned to him, eyebrows knitting, and Ghost shrugged again.

“What d’you mean?”

“Dunno. Lot of commanding officers see the record, see the fact I’m legally dead, easy way to meet mission objectives, the kind they promise and can never follow through. Never even need to worry about signing a KIA form. Grave’s already dug and filled.” 

Ghost had pulled them slightly apart, and MacTavish could feel the cold seeping in between them. He pulled himself up, resting his head on his hands, and then pulled the empty cup towards him, ceramic scraping against wood.

“And the 141’s different?” MacTavish asked after a moment. Ghost looked over at him.

“Isn’t it?”

“Course it is,” MacTavish replied immediately, defensively, and there was the tiny tick up of his eyes again, a smile MacTavish wasn’t allowed to see. But then Ghost sighed, eyelashes fluttering, and his eyes fell on the base by the window, the orange light and the smoke. He ran a finger over the rim of the cup.

“I’ll stop, sir,” Ghost said quietly, and put his hands down on the table in front of him, rubber knuckle guards tapping against the table, eyes back on the snow. “Won’t be a problem.”

“Ghost.” 

“My conduct was unacceptable, sir. Shouldn’t’ve said that about Shogun. It won’t happen again.”

“Stop— just—”

For lack of a better way to get his attention, MacTavish turned to him, hooking a foot around the leg of his chair and turning him fully away from the window and towards him. The orange light illuminated what was visible of his face, eyes widened with surprise. He leaned forward in the chair to look at him.

“I’m not havin’ you reassigned over this, lieutenant, I’m not givin’ you up.” 

“Sir—”

“I know,” MacTavish interrupted, before he could even speak, “I know you were bein’ insubordinate, but if I started following the rule book now I’d be a fuckin’ hypocrite. And more importantly, I’d rather have you.”

Ghost blinked at him, eyes still wide, like he was waiting for a punchline. His hands had landed somewhere at the edge of the chair, and as MacTavish didn’t say anything, he rested them over his lap, finally allowing his shoulders to relax.

“Alright?” MacTavish asked, nudging into him with a boot, leaving a little stain of mud on his trousers.

“Fine.”

“Don’t do that again,” MacTavish said, and the steel in his voice suggested it was an order. Ghost huffed a laugh, catching in his mask. 

“What, respect you?” 

“Close yourself off,” MacTavish replied, a sort of smile at his lips. Apparently not expecting sincerity, Ghost blinked again, looking away quickly. There was something oddly endearing about it, and MacTavish shook his head, before standing up.

“Better get us somethin’ to eat then. Stay here.” 

“Yes, sir.”

MacTavish squeezed his shoulder as he went by. The smile in Ghost’s eyes was unmistakable.