Archive of Our Own

Captain John MacTavish is a collection of frayed edges praying that if he holds the threads tense enough anyone looking at him will see a strong, thick rope. As long as they don’t look for too long, or squint, or pull on the rope. But even then, he can’t allow himself to collapse. People are pulling on him everyday, relying on him to hold them up, to carry them safely home. He has to hold himself tenser still, until another piece of him frays apart and he has to grab that one tight and pull it back into formation too.

It wasn’t always like this. Soap was green, but he was happy. Sure he liked his things orderly, he had to put his boots on twice to be sure he’d done it right, he scrubbed his hands raw running from visions of himself laid up in bed sick when he was needed elsewhere, a mission gone awry without him around to help. But he hadn’t run himself quite so ragged. He’d been coping.

John MacTavish is not coping.

He is the leader of a handpicked group of the best warriors on the planet. Best of the fucking best. There’s history to make, paperwork to do, orders to give, orders to carry out, recruits to select, soldiers to manage, life or death missions every week, lives in his hands every second. If he doesn’t protect his people in the field, they’re dead. If he doesn’t train them up enough back at base, they’re dead. The pressure is absolute and unrelenting and if he actually stops to catch his breath for a second, they’re dead. He can’t get distracted, can’t be that selfish. He doesn’t have the luxury of getting out a needle to sew his threads back together. As long as he can do his job, he’s fine.

This is why Shepherd doesn’t allow psychiatrists within touching distance of the 141. You don’t get to the level they operate at without sacrificing pieces of yourself. If you shook them all up you’d get a cocktail of prescription medications and trauma responses. And John… Well, that’s why he got his damn codename. They diagnosed him back in SAS selection. There hadn’t exactly been a ton of sympathy or understanding back then. Someone saw ‘OCD’ on file and that was that for his nickname options.

He knows it’s gotten worse. He doesn’t need a psychologist to sit him down and study him to tell him that. He’s the one who has to live with it, who has to count his ammo one by one, who has to chase away the vivid, stubborn mental images of his team dying because of his fuck ups, the ones that haunt him when he’s just sitting there. On leave. He’s not stupid. He KNOWS that’s not normal. But it’s what he’s been dealt, and he’s not a baby faced recruit. He can work around it. He lets his team down enough as it is, the last thing he’s going to do is abandon them to go and talk to therapists about his intrusive thoughts. They might be painful, but they let him plan ahead for any outcome. It’s good that he’s so aware of the worst case scenarios. It makes him more useful, probably the one advantage he brings as Captain. He’s not getting rid of useful thoughts, or rituals that protect his team.

Even if they don’t make sense. Like the bridge ritual.

John hates bridges. Hates them more than flashbangs, psychiatrists, and dogs. They’re too vulnerable, one rocket away from a dead end - literal and figurative. Meat always bitches about how much he hates water when they’re given a choice of approach and John takes them through a river below a perfectly good bridge. That’s why Meat isn’t the captain. He doesn’t know.

Every time he has to cross a bridge he swears he hears a helicopter. It used to freeze him up, no matter what was going on. Price on his back, chest compressions. Gaz with a gun to his temple. Griggs falling, his blood on Soap’s shoulder. Every bridge a different image that won’t get the fuck out of his head. So he started counting. The therapists - back when there had been therapists, before 141, before Shepherd - said to try it to ‘ease the anxiety’.

It worked for a while. The next time he went over a bridge he made it to 30 just as they hit the other side, and realised he hadn’t thought once about dying there. But then it morphed. Assessing the length of the bridge, counting to 30 perfectly in the time it took to cross, became preventative. There were things that weren’t memories sticking in his mind. Falling into the water. Roach falling into the water. (Which he knows is going to happen one day, because it’s Roach, and he prays he doesn’t shut down when it does.)

If he’s paying enough attention to time the count perfectly then he’s aware, he’s planning. He can get them off the bridge in time if he needs to. If he can finish the count uninterrupted then they’ll pass over the bridge safely. If he can’t do either of these things… Well, it hasn’t been an issue. It always soothes the anxiety, blots out the horrific thoughts. He always does it perfectly.

Until he doesn’t.

He doesn’t even fuck it up for something important like a chase, an escape he’s not expecting, any situation where he might have less control and something else to focus on. The mission has gone exactly according to plan. Night infiltration and clearing of a guard post, cleaning up their own mess, then waiting to ambush the target’s convoy in the morning. Kid’s stuff. Almost everything is to the 141. They’re halfway out of the country before anyone realises something has happened. Nobody’s even looking for them.

Roach picked his shots perfectly. Ghost’s fake comm traffic kept up the illusion of a fully functioning post. The biggest problem they’ve had is that Meat firmly believes Archer took a pot shot at him out of boredom, and that’s proof enough that the mission has gone almost too well. Snipers don’t bore easily. Aside from Archer earning himself some drills, John is proud of his team.

He’s also exhausted. Even for a short op like this he’s been going over maps - tactical, geographical, topographical - and intel for weeks. Plans upon plans, at least ten that they didn’t end up needing, and five more that they still might if things somehow go south between the base and the border. He’s been running drills, coordinating with various high rankers, and staying up at night obsessing over every detail and possibility. That’s just the pre-mission work. With the night infiltration, the waiting, and the travel time in and out, he hasn’t slept in 48 hours after a week of sleeping in 3 hour bursts.

It’s only his firm self control and adrenaline keeping him from swaying on his feet by the time they’re leaving the post behind them. He clambers into the backseat of their transport with Ghost and Roach. Meat drives, a cache of weapons just in-case in shotgun. Archer takes Team 2 in the next vehicle. John keeps his weapon ready, scanning the treeline and anything that shifts even slightly as the car peels away. At the other window, Roach mirrors him.

It quickly becomes clear nobody is following them. Roach’s shoulders slowly relax. He doesn’t look away, but he does loosen his grip on the rifle in his lap. John stubbornly keeps his eyes trained on their surroundings, tense and ready for anything. They rejoin the highway, meeting sporadic early morning traffic. People heading for work while they’re leaving.

“Think we’re clear,” Ghost murmurs, close enough to make him jump. John turns his head ever so slightly. Ghost’s chin hovers over his shoulder so he can speak softly into his ear. It’s the kind of easy familiarity they only have with each other. He’s grateful for the skull mask. This close together he knows his eyes would stray to Ghost’s lips, muscle memory taking over. He can get his mind back on track, but Ghost is a distracting man.

“Maybe that’s what they want us to think,” he responds, just as low and quiet. Roach is watching the world go by and Meat is focusing on the road ahead. Neither of them are paying their superiors any attention. Everyone knows they share a personal space bubble, and they need to discuss classified matters privately all the time. It still feels almost illicit, Ghost’s eyes this close, his shoulder pressed to John’s back. Getting cosy while the kids are in the car with them.

Ghost chuckles. Warm, amused air against John’s ear. “Nah. We’re well past the best ambush spot.”

The worst part, the most effective, is that John knows that Ghost isn’t trying to coddle him. He’s just as dedicated to the mission, single-minded in his devotion to the violence and their orders. If Ghost is trying to convince him they’re safe he’s not doing it out of worry for him, but because he genuinely believes it and doesn’t want John to waste his energy.

So John sighs, forces himself to turn in his seat until he’s actually facing forward. Ghost shifts heartbreakingly out of reach, back to something that could almost be called proper. Except that they’re three large men in the back of a normal sized car, and that means Ghost’s thighs are squeezed tightly between his and Roach’s. Ghost keeps moving, adjusting, trying to find room for his bulk in the narrower gap. There’s an elbow in Roach’s side for a second and he squawks, glowering at the two of them. Ghost’s left foot hooks over John’s right, pressing the two of them even closer together. Just from his eyes, John can tell he’s smiling.

He kicks at Ghost’s foot, just to be a dick, but that gets him kicked back, and suddenly he’s blushing because Jesus they’re being cute aren’t they? Stupid. This is why he has to be on his guard. They’re not on a date. They’re squished into the backseat of a car, and Ghost has blood on the boots he’s kicking John with. (That doesn’t upset him per se, the contrast is just throwing him off.)

But it’s so easy to relax, suddenly, to forget he’s trying to focus. They’re safe. Roach is nearby, safely strapped and not about to fall off of anything, and Ghost is even closer. Warm and comfortable at his side. Back at base Ghost is cold as ice but when they let him loose, when he fulfils his purpose, he runs so hot from the adrenaline it’s like sitting beside a furnace. It’s nice after a night of lying in wait in cold, freezing air.

This is one of the safest, most comfortable spots he could imagine. Ghost right beside him, Roach within grabbing distance, his team all unharmed. Warm and safe and tightly supported by the other two thick bodies in the back of the car. There are only really two places he can imagine feeling safer. One doesn’t exist anymore. The other still has Ghost in it.

It’s inevitable really. Warm, safe, cosy. Ghost - possibly the most paranoid of them all - convinced they’re safely out of the danger zone. No decent sleep for weeks. Of course John is going to drift off so slowly he doesn’t get the chance to fight it.

When he wakes up he’s wobbling.

“Shut up!” Ghost, hissing.

There’s disorientation. Up is down and down is up. He’s blinked his eyes open but he can’t see anything. Except then he feels the material beneath his cheek. Military-grade. Thick protection over a strong shoulder. And then the thing his eyes are pressed to shifts and he realises it’s Ghost’s neck - Ghost’s mask - he’s buried his face in.

He lifts his head slowly, fighting his way back to consciousness. Ghost isn’t looking at him, but there’s an arm around him that tightens. The scene comes back into focus in snatches. Meat’s wide eyes spot him sitting up in the rear view mirror. Ghost is hissing something to Roach, who is signing something back so rapidly that John’s too tired to parse it.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Ghost complains, glancing back at John. Roach frowns and signs something that John is, again, too sleepy to translate. “Yes it is your fault,” Ghost insists. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“It’s a licence plate that says boob, man,” Meat complains. “It was pretty funny.”

John actually smiles. He knows he can’t have been asleep that long, but just for the brief nap he feels refreshed. It’s good to see the team joking with Ghost. Though he might claim he doesn’t want it, that he’s too far gone for friends, he needs the little doses of humanity. Besides, it gets old convincing people that Ghost isn’t actually a ghost, or a demon.

Ghost sighs in frustration, glowering between Meat and Roach. “Sorry sir,” he says to John. Which is a funny way to address a man who’s been napping on you.

John frowns at a wet spot on Ghost’s shoulder. “Think I should be the one saying that.”

Ghost’s eyebrows raise. Not caught off guard, Ghost is never caught out like that. Just interested. “Alright,” he says, audibly smirking. “You can call me sir if you like.”

Meat and Roach lose it. It’s dangerously close to public, more than they ever are, but just close enough to banter to be easy to miss. John doubts Meat thinks it’s anything other than Ghost’s penchant for insubordination. Roach might see the innuendo, but he’ll keep his mouth shut literally and metaphorically if he does. John trusts him. He trusts a lot more people than he should, but he’s confident Roach is a good one.

It’s there, as he’s glancing at Roach to see if he’s noticed anything, that the background behind his head comes into view.

The open, sky-blue background. Between two cliffs. The concrete railings and metal struts. The bridge.

The bridge they’re on. That they’ve been crossing for who knows how long, and he hasn’t been-

He jerks upright quickly, twisting away from Ghost to look out of his own window. The warmth of his lieutenant feels distant, inconsequential now. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, how did he not notice? How did he miss it? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9-

Trees snap into place in a sudden rush, solid ground beneath the car’s wheels again. They’re safe. John’s brain does not get the message. It feels like they’re the least safe they’ve ever been. Images, unwanted and uninvited, fill his head. The bridge, any bridge, blown sky high beneath them. Their car tumbling into that endless blue expanse. Charred and black and flaming. The smell of rubber and metal burning in the air. Ghost’s blood on his shoulder. He can feel it, wet beneath him like drool. Suddenly it’s all he can feel.

The images aren’t prophecies, or concrete ideas. But something bad is going to happen. He didn’t do his ritual. He didn’t protect them, and now the next time they drive over a bridge… or maybe even before that. Maybe randomly, out of nowhere, because he didn’t pay attention, he didn’t do his job, he fucked up.

Something bad is going to happen.

“Turn around.”

Meat looks back at him for a second. They could crash. Plow into a blue car, like the blue sky as they plunge into a ravine. “Say again, Captain?”

John feels eyes on the side of his head. “Turn around,” he says again. Maybe if they can just… do it over, cross the bridge again. He’ll do his count twice to make up for missing it, and that’ll be fine. He can still save it; they just have to turn around.

“Something wrong?” Meat asks, confused.

“We need to cross the bridge again we-” didn’t do it right. John stops himself. The words burn in his throat, pleading to come out, but he knows how ridiculous they sound, how childish it will make him look. He knows, rationally, that you can’t cross a bridge wrong. It’s just his brain, his issues. He can’t make it his team’s problem.

When he doesn’t say anything, and the bridge falls further and further behind him, Meat’s hands grow tense on the wheel. “Sir?” He prompts again. Roach is staring at him. Roach is going to die, tumbling from a bridge. Maybe John won’t catch him. Maybe he’ll push him. Why would he push him? He would never-

“Keep going.” Ghost. Firm, confident, arms folded, and eyes ever so casually averted, on the road. “No problems, Sergeant.”

Meat hesitates, but he nods. The car curves on toward their destination. John counts his breathing, holds every single breath for five seconds. He shifts in his seat, struggling to stay still. Roach and Meat already think he’s lost it. The last thing he needs to do is show them exactly how crazy he is. And Ghost… Ghost must be so frustrated. He shifts his gun into his lap. He begins, despite the tight confines, despite Ghost’s knee pressing into the stock, to disassemble and clean it.

Something bad is going to happen.

The word obsession originates from the Latin word obsessionem, from obsessus, from obsidere, meaning to besiege. This was its original meaning, a long time ago. John has heard this explanation a thousand times from well meaning doctors that want him to have sympathy for himself. Like he matters more than the lives he puts at risk when he’s fucking up.

Having an obsession is exactly like being under siege. He’s experienced both, so he feels qualified to say they picked their word right. The same lack of relief. The same overwhelming, overbearing presence surrounding you. The thoughts don’t attack you in a rush, they wear you down. They can last longer than you can. All they have to do is sit and wait, and all you can do is sit and watch them and pray they go away before you have to give something up. But John should be able to cope. He should know how to survive a siege without cowering. That's his job

He paces their transport out. For some reason it doesn’t take off while he’s examining the anti-missile defence systems, counting how many flares they have onboard. Neither does it roll along the runway while he strides up the left side of the interior and down the right, tugging on every handle. Fuck. He hasn’t done that since his SAS days. If he were lucid, he’d be concerned about the sudden return of it. As it is, he’s so out of it that when he’s finally sitting down and taking his gun out again, he misses Ghost rapping on the spot behind the pilot’s head.

His lieutenant sits beside him as the plane begins to move, with the others sitting across from them. It doesn’t matter if they’re staring at him. He’s decided they have, and he has a gun to clean again. It wasn’t right, earlier. He couldn’t see it properly in the cramped confines of the car. He’s convinced it’s going to jam if he fires it like this.

Ghost doesn’t say anything, but John can feel him watching him. What is he thinking? “And I thought I was the crazy one?” “God he’s annoying. I can’t handle this.” “What sort of idiot can’t clean his gun right the first time?” He wants to stop himself. He doesn’t want Ghost - any of them, but especially not Ghost - to see him like this. But he can’t stop it, any of it. That’s why he has to clean the gun. He has to get back control.

Because something bad is going to happen.

Normally they debrief as soon as they get back to base. John is especially diligent about this, The fresher the information the more useful the debrief. But this time he walks out of the plane without a word, on autopilot. Ghost takes charge behind him like nothing is wrong, like it’s totally normal and justified for the captain to walk off without a word when he’s got work to do. The thing is, Ghost is just intimidating enough that it works. Nobody follows him, and nobody questions him. They assume he’s told Ghost to do this at some point. Whispered orders between the two of them. They do that sometimes.

He walks all the way back to his room without thinking about it. His mind is occupied counting breaths, fiercely trying to bat away the thought that just won’t leave. When he gets into his room he crosses straight to the desk and… stops.

The weapon should be back in the armoury. The gear should be back in his locker. He needs to shower. He needs to file reports. There are so many things he needs to do, and he’s going to fuck them all up. He doesn’t know where to start with what feels like a list of pre-determined failures.

Boots, he prompts himself. Boots off first. Come on MacTavish. Pull yourself together.

He puts the gun down on the desk. The other weapons and ammo strapped to him stay where they are. He bends down. Unlacing. Stepping out. Then the next boot, until he’s standing in just his socks.

Fuck. No. That wasn’t right.

So back on with the boots. Laces done up again, then unlaced, and the boots come off again.

Roach is going to die, falling from a bridge, and he won’t be able to catch him. He'll trip running for him because his boots will be too loose, because he wore them out taking them off wrong. Pulling and jerking and stretching them.

Fucking hell.

On with the boots. Off with the boots. He swears out loud, hits the desk with his hand. The simplest fucking thing, and he can’t do it right. His ankle keeps catching awkwardly, the boot tilts over as he steps out of it. If he can’t even take his boots off right, how can he possibly be putting them on right? What if he trips or stumbles because of it and his team-

He swears again. He pulls the boots back on and gives up, kicking out at the desk in frustration. Fine. Fine. Fuck you. Gun then. At least he can finally get it cleaned and assembled neatly.

He’s tried to do it right three times before he hears the door open behind him. He loses count of the magazines left, and he closes his eyes, clenches his whole body. “What?!” He snaps. There’s silence from behind him. But John knows that silence. He withers like a dying plant, all the tension sapped out of him.

The door closes with a soft click, and locks with a louder one. “Debrief’s finished.” Ghost says it like he’s delivering a report and hasn’t just walked in on his captain, his lover, if either of them has any claim to the word, making a twat of himself.

“Thank you,” John says, which isn’t really enough. His words are sluggish right now, everything narrowed down to his hands and the things he can’t do. “You should be Captain.” It slips out without his permission, but it’s true. Ghost gets the job done. Maybe it’s not healthy, the way he shuts off what isn’t necessary, becomes Ghost, but he doesn’t fall apart like this. He isn’t so much confident as stubbornly unbothered by most things.

That isn’t true. It’s cruel to think like that when he knows better. But right now he feels about 2 inches tall, and Ghost is as solid as a rock and as tall as a mountain.

Immediately, “You know I shouldn’t.” Then more silence. He can’t stop himself from piecing the gun back together, starting again. Ghost watches him. Maybe he’s moving closer, but he moves so quietly it’s impossible to tell. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning my gun,” John says, short and to the point.

“You’ve done that twice already.”

“I didn’t do it right.” John’s hands stall over the reassembled weapon. Like he’s afraid to start doing it again, to fail it. But he can’t stop the thoughts, the white eyes of the 141 staring accusingly up at him. It’s all on him. It’s not. He’s being stupid. Worse, he’s letting Ghost see it. He wants to stop but he can’t.

“It looks plenty clean to me.” Ghost sounds closer now. “... What happened, Johnny? Talk to me.”

“That’s my line.” John manages a shaky smile at his own joke. That’s a little ritual too. Even when Ghost has just spoken to him, when there’s no update to give. The reassurance is more important than the actual information. He’s like a child repetitively asking if their parent loves them.

“Johnny.”

He closes his eyes. This is the worst part. What he knows and what he feels confronting each other, and both of them looking to tear each other apart. Ghost knows it all already, but he can’t help but not want to look stupid in front of him. Maybe that's universal, whether you're a teenager in love or a middle aged man with a kill count in the hundreds. He thinks the world of Ghost. His resilience, his skills, his dedication. Ghost is indifferent to himself at best, hateful at worst, but John loves every inch of him. That’s why he has to be on top of things, has to protect him, has to-

“The bridge,” he gets out, stuttering it past the thought of Ghost with a gun to his temple. In the image in his head, it’s his finger on the trigger. Symbolic. Metaphorical. Terrifying. “I didn’t… I didn’t count to 30.” He gets it out in a rush, and he waits for laughter, for Ghost to ask what the big deal about that is.

Instead, Ghost sucks in a breath. “Yeah...” He’s much closer now. “I’m sorry.”

Wait. What?

He looks over his shoulder, squinting. Ghost is a respectful, careful distance away, but he shifts like he wants to step closer. “What?” John asks. “What the hell are you apologising for?”

“I know you do… something with bridges. Didn’t know it was exactly that, but I know it’s one of your things. I should have woken you up, but I was hoping you’d sleep through it. Fucking Meat,” he mutters to himself for a second. “Give me him next group spar, Johnny. Let me.”

Let me hurt everyone who ever hurt you, even if it’s one of our own, even if it’s me. Let me rip the guts out of everyone who ever so much as inconvenienced you. Let me get their intestines between my teeth and come back to you and lick your tears away with a bloody tongue.

Okay. So maybe Ghost isn’t normal either. Maybe John knows that, and he likes it more than he should, and it was silly of him to ever imagine Ghost would be embarrassed by him. He turns around again, squeezing his eyes shut because he still can’t stand the sight of the messy gun, and laughs shakily. “Ghost… It’s not Meat’s fault I’m fucked up.”

“You’re not fucked up.” Ghost says, firm and stubborn as ever. “I’m fucked up Johnny, and you’re nothing like me.”

John shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” It feels like something he has to say. Ghost shifts behind him, deliberately loud enough for him to hear. The rush of fondness is so intense he smiles. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “you can c’mere.” Because Ghost always wants permission to touch him with his hands, as if John has ever not wanted his touch.

Immediately there’s warmth at his back, Ghost plastered to him. His hands slide past grenades and knives and other tools of the trade, and settle on his hips, fingers brushing the edge of his navel. The instant Ghost’s forehead touches his shoulder, he sighs heavily and presses back, almost relaxing into him except for the tension in his muscles.

Ghost turns his head, lips brushing his neck through the mask. Normally John would complain about teasing, but he’s too overstimulated right now. Ghost’s lips against his skin would feel like a branding iron. “How can I help, Captain?”

They rarely use titles for each other, and never like this, but somehow it feels right. He knows what Ghost is doing. Trying to make him feel competent, remind him of his role. Annoyingly enough, it’s working.

“I need to clean my gun,” he says, because that’s all he can think of. “Need to count the parts, wipe them down, and polish them.”

“I know how to clean a gun.”

“Yeah but I need to… I need to repeat stuff,” he forces himself to get out. “Need to count. Need to do it right.”

Ghost nods into his neck. “Alright. You do it, I’ll hold you.”

He feels every crack along the glass pane of his body. He feels his threads fluttering pathetically to the floor. It’s so incredibly kind that it hurts that it isn’t going to work. John screws his eyes shut, pained. “I can’t,” he admits. “I can’t get it right, any of it. Normally I don’t need to do everything exactly perfect but after I fucked up the bridge I need to do all of them to make up for it but I-”

“Breathe.”

He does breathe, a sloppy inhale and exhale. One of Ghost’s hands slides up, resting over his chest. A calming weight. Mutual reassurance, as his breathing slows down again. Even if he can’t feel it, Ghost’s pulse is in front of him in his wrist and behind him in his chest. Surround sound proof that he’s alive and well.

Slowly, Ghost’s hands move again. They brush along the underneath of his arms, until he can intertwine their fingers. “Then we’ll do it,” he says. “How many times are we wiping it down?”

It’s the first of many questions. Ghost’s hands settle on top of his, a weight that isn’t so much guiding as supporting him. His hands move and Ghost counts in his ear. They work softly, slowly, steadily. Ghost pulls his mask up at some point, and as John puts down each piece of equipment, he brushes a kiss against his neck.

A therapist would call this positive reinforcement of a bad habit. A therapist would recommend they never see each other again, because for all the good they do each other they do as much bad in the long term. Possession and obsession and all sorts of things they should be resisting. A therapist wouldn’t understand that there is no “long term” in the lives of the 141, who have an average life expectancy of 35. There’s here, now, and what came before. John doesn’t care if he should be resisting. He just wants it to be easier, and Ghost lifts his burden up like it’s a child’s toy.

When the gun is whole and gleaming, shining, John exhales shakily. Ghost buries his face in his neck again, nodding with satisfaction. “There we go,” he all but purrs against his skin. It’s exactly the way he says it when he’s between John’s legs, when he’s teasing him.

John’s too tired for that right now, but his body makes a valiant effort.

“You need a shower,” Ghost says calmly, as John sinks back into him. A shower sounds heavenly right now, but…

John sighs. “Gotta get my gear off and I have-”

“Rituals,” Ghost finishes.

“And for my hair too.” So many for his hair. “But I’m so fucking tired Ghost.” He’s always tired. Every mission stretches his energy out a little further. This is the first time he’s admitted that out loud, but Ghost doesn’t seem surprised.

“I’ve never had a problem getting your kit off,” Ghost says, which makes John laugh properly. Ghost grins against his neck at the sound. “And I know your haircare routine.”

Normally he’d say no. Ghost has seen more than enough stupidity from him tonight. But he’s so, so tired, and Ghost’s warmth against him is perfect. It’s almost making him sleepy. So he sighs, and nods.

Ghost counts each piece of equipment and gives him a verdict on its condition. John manages to pull his own clothes and protective gear off, but Ghost counts that too and piles it neatly on the desk beside his equipment. (John readjusts it, because Ghost hasn’t gotten the edges to line up on the vest and the trousers. Ghost doesn’t say anything.) It’s so ridiculously easy that his raw, overworked brain feels even stupider. It’s made worse by the fact that he’s standing naked in front of Ghost, who’s still fully geared up for a mission.

Ghost pushes him towards the shower. One of the perks of command, his own bathroom. Tiny as it is. With the mask on it’s hard to tell, but John feels like he’s being given more than a once over. “Go on,” Ghost says, beginning to strip with zero hesitation. Even if he wasn’t used to being naked in this room, he’d probably be shameless about it. Sometimes Ghost’s body seems more of a vessel to him than a… well, body. “Get the shower warmed up.” John makes his way into the bathroom clumsily, tired and warm and almost drunk from the proximity to Ghost, the release of the end of the siege. Well… not the end. A break, maybe. Ghost has scared away a third of the army, and they can smuggle a little bread in.

Maybe, he muses as he’s running the shower, a hand trailing lazily underneath it to gauge the temperature, breaking in front of Ghost doesn’t feel like breaking in front of the team. He’s their Captain. Maybe being vulnerable in front of Ghost just isn’t the same as being vulnerable in front of a subordinate. Because… they’re lovers? No. That's pathetic. John might have to order him to his death any day, and they both know that. Because he could never order Ghost to do anything he truly did not want to do, perhaps. Ghost is too strong, too capable to submit to anyone. He’ll do it temporarily, but only because he chooses to.

Because Ghost should be the Captain, not him. Ghost is better at almost everything they do. If circumstances had been kinder to him, if he hadn’t been through everything he’s been through, he’d be in charge. Whatever their rank may say, Ghost is not his subordinate, his inferior. More than anyone else, Ghost makes it clear to him what he is.

There’s a mirror in the bathroom, but he doesn’t recognise himself in it. He sees a warped, puzzle-piece figure. Price’s cigar smoke flows out of his mouth. Shepherd’s narrow, steady shoulders. Price’s eyes. Price’s scarred hand. Shepherd’s firm, unpleasantly twisted lips. Is any part of him still himself? Or is it all buried too deep, beneath the other men he wears like a costume to hide his own deficiency? It’s been years since he recognised himself in these mirrors. Five.

The bathroom door opens. Ghost mercifully returns to quiet his mind. The mask is gone. It’ll be on the bedside table. He smiles, and John gets to see it. The only person alive who can really say that, probably. Something that’s just for him, just for them, and not a piece of any costume.

The shower is warm and the water on his head is relaxing. Ghost is pressed to him like he’s trying to climb inside of him. It’s far too small and cramped in here for two, but somehow they make it work. Ghost rearranges them once they’re slick and shiny. They grin at each other as their bodies slide together.

The grin disappears when John reaches up and turns the shower temperature down. Ghost jerks back from it, even though this has happened to him several times before. He looks like he could start hissing.

“Hot water’s-”

“Bad for the hair, i know.” Ghost slowly inches closer again, arms coming up around him. “Doesn’t mean cold water isn’t fucking cold.”

“You need it,” John says, getting a knee between Ghost’s thighs for a second, before he’s grabbed and - laughing - spun around.

“Tease,” Ghost mutters without heat as he reaches for John’s shampoo, his favourite one that smells of maple. It’s all so… domestic. He’s never had Ghost take care of him before, not in such a clear, physical way. It feels easier than he expected. Certainly easier than taking care of Ghost, a delicate dance he’s always terrified he’s going to screw up beyond repair one day.

Ghost’s hands are strong but gentle, so full of love that it’s both a surprise and entirely believable that he does such violence at John’s command. He rubs soothing circles into his scalp, working the lather down to the roots. He pays close attention to the mohawk that falls awkwardly flat with the water on it. When he’s satisfied he backs John under the water again and massages it out of his hair. It feels amazing, and he doesn’t have to move a muscle.

Ghost doesn’t even ask the next step. He pulls John out from beneath the water again and retrieves his quick hair mask. With the same soothing motions he works it into his hair. It doesn’t take long, arguably John doesn’t have much hair to begin with. He feels silly, for being too tired to just apply this to his mohawk but-

Ghost jolts him out of his feelings, pulling a shower cap over his head. “This still looks stupid,” he tells him, and John laughs again as Ghost turns them around. His turn under the shower now. Ghost quickly rinses himself off while they wait for the mask to do its work. Then his hands are back on John’s shoulders, following the trails left by the shampoo as it washed out of his hair.

He jumps when Ghost’s hands press hard into the muscles of his back, and then he melts as Ghost’s massaging fingers officially move from his hair to his back. He has to bring a hand up to the harsh cement wall of the shower to steady himself. Ghost’s palm works against a knot and his head drops forward, leaning heavily on the hand that’s barely keeping him upright. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Ghost rubs apologetically over the knot once he’s worked it out, and moves on to another spot. “Jesus Christ you’re tense,” he mutters.

“Ghost,” John moans in reply, the only word he can even think about getting out now. Ghost chuckles behind him and he can’t even be embarrassed about it. His brain is mush. Ghost has it all under control. He’s going to make sure he does his routine, does it perfectly. He’s going to take care of him.

It’s nice to be taken care of. Why didn’t he let this happen sooner?

Ghost’s head dips to his shoulder, kissing over wet skin as his hands keep working their magic. He’s so strong. He breaks backs, doesn’t massage them. Yet here he stands, doing just that.

“You did fucking amazing today,” Ghost tells him. His hands are just distracting enough that the praise doesn’t annoy John, doesn’t stir him into a mess of contradictions and frustration because it isn’t true. It just isn’t. Instead, he just stands there and smiles to himself stupidly, distracted by the massage. “Everyone knew what they were doing because of you. All your shots were perfect. You knew Roach had the shot on the target and you knew exactly when to tell him to take it. Asshole didn’t even see it coming.”

Ghost shifts them again. Boneless, John goes where he’s told. He’s almost forgotten about the routine entirely, until Ghost is tugging the shower cap off of him and kissing his forehead. “And when Meat and Archer were kicking off,” he backs John under the water, “you had them under control in seconds. Just said their names and they came to heel like your trained dogs.” His hands begin to massage through his hair, rinsing the mask off gently. “They all respect you so much.”

Normally John carries their conversations. Ghost has a great sense of humour, he’s quick witted and gives as good as he gets, but he doesn’t like to waste his words. This is the most he’s ever spoken at once without John interrupting or catching the conversation when it falls. He can’t ever remember Ghost talking this much and he’s getting lost in it, wrapped up in the sound of the voice that means so much to him. More of it than he’s ever had, and he greedily wants more still.

He gets it. “Know you stayed up so many nights planning this,” Ghost continues, washing out his hair. “You work so goddamn hard. I’ve never seen anyone who can plan as quickly as you and still stays up making more back up plans.” He reaches around John for the conditioner. The smell of more maple fills the shower as he upends it onto his own palm. “So smart. So dedicated.”

“Ghost-” It’s too much without his hands. Praise he doesn’t deserve, has never deserved. It burns. But then Ghost’s hands are in his hair again and it’s…well, it still burns, but it’s tolerable.

“I trust you,” Ghost says. “You have any idea what that means, Johnny?” He works the conditioner through John’s hair, root to tip. Stroking and carding and playing with the strands. “Do you understand how perfect you have to be, how true and good you have to be, for someone like me to trust you? I don’t fucking trust myself. But you…” he falls silent for a moment, just working away on hair and conditioner. Then he rinses it out, hands moving firmly over John’s head again.

“Scares the hell out of me,” Ghost mutters into the low, lazy steam of a shower not up to temperature. He’s lost in his own mind now. John reels in the confusing space of his own, trying to right a ship the storm of praise has thrown wildly off course. No matter how hard he tries, the thread of self hatred is gone. Oh it’s there, somewhere, in the fog on those high seas, but he can’t find it anymore. Ghost does that to him, throws him off course. Falling for Ghost wasn’t the plan. None of this was the plan.

It might be better.

He doesn’t remember making it to the bed. Everything is fuzzy, like he’s drunk. The crash after the adrenaline, the coconut and maple scents, Ghost’s strong arms around him. All of it is a heady mix that John has come to know as the nearest thing to peace he’ll ever get.

Bizarrely, it’s the closest he ever feels to Soap.

Normally when they sleep together - which isn’t as often as John would like, but appearances must be kept up for Shepherd and the high rankers - they collapse into a sweaty mess and let themselves drift off however they fall. Normally he holds Ghost. Nightmares, bad days, aching reminders of pain wrought upon his body. He never lets Ghost hold him, because he’s always trying to hold himself together, strong and whole and everything a captain is supposed to be, even in the privacy of his room. He’s never had Ghost’s arm below his head, around his shoulders. It’s strange to go through the steps, to feel Ghost arrange their limbs with a purpose that isn’t sexual. Somehow it feels more intimate. He’s never been held quite this safely.

“Thank you,” Ghost says into the comfortable silence, which is so utterly ridiculous John laughs.

“Thank me?”

“Yeah.” Ghost looks away awkwardly, toward the mask. He wants to put it on, probably, to escape the moment. “For letting me take care of you. For trusting me to do that, I mean.” He mutters the last part. A box he doesn’t want to open.

It’s John’s turn to look away. “I don’t see what’s so good about having to deal with me when I’m like that.”

Ghost grabs his chin and forces him to look at him. His grip relaxes, turns gentle, when they’re eye to eye. It’s a reminder of how bizarre they are. Softness from a hand that instinctively looks to bruise. “You never let me help,” he says, quietly.

John licks his bottom lip, dangerously close to Ghost’s thumb. “When I ask you to talk to me,” he admits, voice hoarse, because tonight seems to be the night for teaching Ghost his rituals, “that’s me letting you help.”

Ghost shakes his head. “It’s not like this. I like being able to take a little bit of the burden off of you.”

There are immediate responses. He’s the burden, not the one carrying it. If Ghost wants to carry the burden so bad, he can be Captain and carry it full time. He’s letting Ghost down even here, because he’s not been giving him what he wants.

But those are immediate responses. Survival responses. He’s not surviving right now, never with Ghost’s bare face in front of him. That’s when they’re living, even if he has to remind himself of that, has to drag himself back up to the surface.

So instead he brushes a hand across Ghost’s cheek, and a kiss across his lips. “Thank you,” he says quietly, which is as close to ‘I love you’ as he can get.

Ghost pulls him closer, shuffling until John’s head is resting on his chest. For a moment the world goes quiet, drowned out by Ghost’s heartbeat. The siege towers crumble. The torches in the encampments go out.