Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re lookin’ pale.”

“Ha,” Ghost replied very drily, with a look over at MacTavish. They were in the kitchen, the sunlight flooding through the windows, the sound of the nearby mess hall muffled through the walls. The floors were scuffed, as the staff had just left, but the countertops were clean; MacTavish leaned against one countertop as Ghost moved around, drumming his fingers against the countertops as the water boiled. He was making spaghetti— it wasn’t typical for soldiers to fix their own food, and definitely not a real meal rather than dry MREs, but MacTavish had noticed the little habit of Ghost’s months ago. Before a mission, rather than eat with the others, or sneaking himself a meal, he’d creep into the kitchen like a shadow after the staff had left. If he was honest, MacTavish had no clue where he ate the food once he was done; the operating assumption was his room, but he’d never so much as seen a dirty dish in there. Never commenting on it directly for worry that Ghost would stop allowing MacTavish to know this tiny habit of his, he’d instead begun to join him, mumbling some excuse about wanting to fix himself a cup of coffee while Ghost cooked, sitting and talking as he did. As it stood, he was watching him snap a handful of spaghetti and drop the halves into a pot.

“I’m bein’ serious,” MacTavish replied, switching the cup of coffee to his other hand. 

“How’d you work that one out, sir?” 

“Look at you!”

Ghost placed the lid on the pot before turning to glare; far too used to it, MacTavish brushed it off. He was wearing the mask, a plain one, tucked into the neckline of his T-shirt, and rolled his eyes before plucking a pair of red tinted sunglasses from his pocket, and putting them on.

“Happy?”

“How’re you seein’ with those on?”

“Easily,” Ghost replied, turning back to the stove. “Move, you’re in the way of the cupboard.”

“Still your superior officer,” MacTavish replied, trying to force some of the steel into his voice he used with the recruits. It was an open secret that Ghost was immune to it, and especially outside of missions, never bothered with it— for a long time, it had bothered MacTavish, until he had once seriously threatened to write him up and Ghost had begun abiding by it. It had lasted exactly one and a half days before MacTavish had ordered him to stop. Still, Ghost humoured a little respect from time to time.

“Move, sir,” he added, “you’re in the way of the cupboard.” 

“Better.”

MacTavish stepped aside, while Ghost took out a jar of pasta sauce, gently nudging the cupboard shut behind him. He worked very quietly, boots barely tapping on the tile, and the dull hum of conversation in the mess hall didn’t let up. They were stationed in Gibraltar, on a four week stint before they would be moved elsewhere. 

“You look like a fuckin’ idiot with those on indoors, you know.”

“You were the one complaining!”

“You were the one that looked sick!”

“Captain,” Ghost sighed, and Soap imagined that behind the glasses, he was rolling his eyes. “I’m not sick. And if I was, I wouldn’t’ve waited two hours before wheels up to say something about it.”

“Whatever you say. I’ll talk to medical about getting you some vitamin D supplements.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost hissed through gritted teeth with an annoyance he had gotten far too used to, as MacTavish grinned into the rim of his cup. He took a sip of the coffee; it was cold, but he hadn’t been in the kitchen for it anyway. Infil came and left without a hitch, and one less shadow roamed the corners of the base.

The problem arose two days later.

“Captain? Can you—” the other voice struggled for a moment through the storm on the other end, and then came back “—me? Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Soap replied, as the picture flickered in and out. It was the evening, just past sunset, and the lights in MacTavish’s office hadn’t come on yet, tinging the whole room a dark purple. The only light was the laptop screen, illuminated by the picture of the other person. 

“Captain Barake,” he said by way of greeting. Barake was a serious man, dark hair and dark eyes that were hardened with years of experience. Only an hour ahead, it was night for him too, and his eyes were illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light of what looked to be a desk lamp. The rain pounded on whatever building he was in, and came through as a static to MacTavish.

“Captain MacTavish,” Barake replied. “I’ll be brief with you. We need an extension on your task force for approximately two more days. No longer.”

“What’s happened?”

“The strike force for the base was a success,” Barake replied, “sixteen insurgents were killed. But the rest diverted our attention, set charges on a local police station. No casualties, we got to it in time, but they’ve taken hostages as we were diverted, and are demanding the return of prisoners in exchange.”

A grim picture, then. MacTavish had sent Ghost along with five others to aid them; he had a feeling he knew where this was going. 

“Any communication outside of diplomats they’ve agreed upon results in hostages killed. Any direct involvement of the Nigerian armed forces results in hostages killed. The prisoners they are asking for,” Barake didn’t finish his sentence, instead shaking his head and closing his eyes like words couldn’t convey it. MacTavish hesitated.

“We’d be risking a major international dispute if they found out British military was involved, though,” MacTavish replied. “Officially, we were only there to oversee.” 

“One of your men volunteered,” Barake replied. “Promised no one would know. Promised he could do it himself. Do you—” the audio flickered for a moment, “—I’m speaking about?”

MacTavish sighed, pushing a knuckle into the skin between his eyebrows. Even with the missing words, he knew exactly who was being spoken about.

“Course I do.”

“Then can I be assured he’s telling the truth?” 

“How many hostiles?”

“With the hostages? Eighteen at any given time. Holed up in an empty school.”

“He’s done it before, alone,” MacTavish replied, watching Barake’s expression flicker with surprise. 

“You’re being serious?”

“I’m being serious. He’s one of our best, and no one would know. I’d rather speak to him first, though.”

“Captain,” Barake replied, frowning a little, “six lives hang in the balance.”

“I know. I know. Just— let me call him.” 

“Call me back if the extension is confirmed,” Barake said by way of reply, and the line went dead. MacTavish looked at the dark screen for a moment, too dark to see his reflection; he stood up to flick on the lights, and when he returned to his desk, punched in the numbers for Ghost’s phone.

“Riley.”

“Ghost,” MacTavish replied. “You secure?”

“I am. This about the extension?”

“You sound like shit,” MacTavish replied, because it was true; voice low and gravelly, he could still hear the rain in the background. “You’re not well.”

“I’m not sick, captain,” Ghost bit out. “Is the extension confirmed?”

“You know this is risky.”

“I wouldn’t’ve offered if it wasn’t feasible,” Ghost replied. “It was our fault they got out in the first place.”

“Riley—”

“ Sir,” Ghost said, more forcefully. 

“Are you sure about this?” MacTavish replied. He listened to the rain fall for a moment; it was louder wherever Ghost was, and he wondered if he was outside. 

“Four of the hostages are under eighteen. Children,” Ghost replied, like an answer. “Children caught in the crossfire.” 

MacTavish sighed, looking up at the light he had just switched on. Not fluorescent white blue, but warm orange yellow, and he stared until he could see patterns on the insides of his eyelids.

“Come back in one piece, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Twenty four hours of official deliberation, negotiations, and under the table concealing of what was about to happen, and the mission was underway. Barake insisted Ghost was an absolute last resort, but the negotiations fell through with every passing hour as they debated terms, and at 1900 hours the next night, Soap received confirmation that the operation was underway. Seven ticked to eight, and eight to nine; the lights of the base flicked off, and MacTavish busied himself with whatever work he could. His laptop ran low on charge, so he stood up to plug it in; he got thirsty, so he left to get a cup of water out of the dispenser by his office door. The call came exactly four hours and twenty two minutes later— mission success, no casualties on their side. Exfil was ordered, and an APC would take the six of them from the mission site to an airfield an hour away, before the two hour flight back to Gibraltar. No one but the night guard was up by the time the plane touched down. MacTavish didn’t go out to the airfield, of course, but the knowledge that it had landed safely calmed something in him, and he was closing the lid of his laptop and stretching when there was a short knock on his door. He blinked, but instead of a further knock, he heard—

“I can see your light on, sir, I know you’re up.”

He scrubbed at his eyes.

“Come on, then.”

“Could see your light on through the window. Figured you were up for the full debrief,” Ghost mumbled by way of greeting as he strode in. He was still in his gear, eyeblack disguising the little skin of his face in the absence of his glasses. Fatigue slumped at his shoulders, made his footsteps sluggish; more concerning than that, though, was the almost raspy way he sounded. He stood a little unsteadily, shutting the door behind him before standing across from MacTavish’s desk. MacTavish was still standing, but leant against his desk to watch Ghost, fatigue pulling at his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you rather do this in the morning?”

“You’re already up,” Ghost shrugged. “S’late. May as well.”

“Ghost,” MacTavish replied, frowning, but he waved him off.

“Mission objective was recovery of all six hostages,” Ghost began, and his voice fell into a serious sort of tone, “and neutralisation of eighteen insurgents, successful completion of both. Entered at 1906, last hostage was recovered at 2258. Took out most of them from distance, hostages were in the northern wing so I drew them to the south entrance and then neutralised them. Last four were by the hostages, so it was hand to hand to prevent misfire. No severe—… injuries sustained, had first aid carried out on base—”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That pause. What was that?” 

Ghost paused again before answering, chewing on the inside of his cheek with a low exhale.

“Just— a headache, sir.” 

“You didn’t hit your head.” 

“No.”

“Have you been to medical?”

“It’s—… fine,” Ghost answered after a moment, eyes closing as he exhaled slowly again. “Nothing a bit of sleep won’t solve.”

“Lieutenant.”

“S’alright,” Ghost mumbled, eyes squeezing shut. “M’fine. Let me finish and I’ll sleep. Just— where was I?” 

“First aid,” MacTavish replied. “What was the damage?”

Ghost didn’t reply, eyes opening, and he shifted on his feet, swaying a little. 

“Ghost?”

“M’fine,” Ghost said again, waving him off unsteadily, “‘m just… where was I?”

MacTavish sighed, taking the few steps forward. 

“Come on, Riley. Let’s get you to—”

Ghost swayed again, and then stumbled forward; MacTavish caught him hurriedly, but the dead weight pulled them both to the ground, MacTavish on his knees and Ghost slumped into his front. MacTavish hurriedly brought a thumb under the hem of the mask, feeling for a pulse; he stirred, hands pushing at MacTavish, trying valiantly to pick himself up off the floor—

“Ghost—” MacTavish exclaimed, trying and failing to keep some semblance of calm in his voice, “Jesus Christ, what the —”

“M’alright,” Ghost murmured in response, patting MacTavish’s leg unsteadily, “m’okay. Jus’—” he interrupted himself to groan in pain, almost silent, but just audible to MacTavish, and he rested his head against him for a moment before renewing his attempts to get up. MacTavish pushed him back down, as Ghost mumbled something inaudible. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” MacTavish replied, tilting his head up to get a good look at him. The blue of his eyes was almost completely covered by his pupils, wide and dark, and he looked up through his eyelashes as he met his eyes. He smiled, or at least MacTavish thought he did; heart suddenly in his ears, he let go too fast and Ghost’s forehead knocked into his chest.

“ Ow.”

“To bed, lieutenant,” Soap said again, looping an arm around him and pulling— more like hauling him up to his side. Ghost leant against him, eyes sliding closed again, but took unsteady steps in time with MacTavish’s. 

Ghost woke up to wailing. His eyes were closed, but it sounded distant, echoing— he could feel it in his teeth, and it echoed in his throat; there was a ringing ache in his head, and the next moment, he felt a hand on the back if his neck, forcing his head down—

He started awake, the sound choked in his throat; the wailing stopped as soon as he realised it, only memories, and the sensation of the hand disappeared with it. MacTavish was over him, and he jumped again, the movement ringing in his ears. He only had a hand towaeds his forehead, pulled back as Ghost had started, and he looked around, trying his best to make sense of his spinning surroundings.

“We’re in my bedroom,” MacTavish explained, as Ghost’s eyes flicked around between the bedside lamp and the bed, skin under the mask feeling clammy. “Was closer than yours. We only just got here.”

Ghost was sprawled across the bed, one leg hanging off the bed, like Soap had just dropped him there— he shuffled backwards as he realised, the movement hurt more, his vest digging into the soft skin of his side. The room spun even more, like it was trying to throw him out— MacTavish brought a hand to his shoulder, pushing him down, placating him.

“Easy, lad. You’re alright.”

Ghost grasped the wrist on his shoulder, grip gentle but holding him there, eyes sliding shut. The dizziness abated for a moment. He swallowed, and then shifted again. 

“Don’t— don’t take me to medical.”

“I know,” MacTavish replied, and he was almost smiling, “you’ve only mentioned it about four times.”

“Hm?”

“On the way here. Kept trying to take you to medical,” MacTavish replied, “you’d be talkin’ jus’ long enough to get me to stop.”

“Oh,” Ghost said, for lack of a better thing to say. His head was still throbbing behind his eyes, and the bedside lamp so close to his eyes didn’t exactly help. His mask was sticking to his skin. “Sorry.”

“S’alright, don’t think you realised it was me,” MacTavish replied, shifting to block some of the light. He was still leaning over him, a hand on the bed frame to steady himself; the light illuminated him from behind like a halo. Ghost blinked before the words registered, and to his confusion, MacTavish gently pulled his hand out of his grasp to show him several nail marks into his wrist, crescents dipped into the skin on the inside of his wrist. Ghost’s eyes widened.

“Fuckin’— sorry,” he mumbled, taking it in his hand. He shifted again to try and sit straighter, and the pain suddenly spiked; his hand came tight around his wrist, and the corners of his vision went grey in a way that had his panic spiking too— the light was suddenly very bright, and the weight of his vest was bearing down on him, and—

“Easy, Riley, come on. Stop tryin’ to get up.”

“Didn’t mean to hurt you,” Ghost bit out, and the phantom hand at the back of his neck seemed to come back to him, nails digging into skin. “Just—”

“S’alright,” MacTavish replied, and his voice had taken on a low, soothing quality that was like balm on an irritated wound. “Didn’t hurt. Didn’t even break skin. Just lie down for me.”

He had a hand on his shoulder again, gently pushing him back down, but there was no malice in the actions, and, as he ran a hand over the bed, he realised the mattress had sheets on it. He didn’t know why he hadn’t expected it to, but whatever memory that had conjured, along with the hand, disappeared again.

“There you are,” MacTavish said softly, “that’s it. S’just me.” 

“S’just you,” Ghost replied, feeling unreasonably relieved at that. The next moment, however, it was replaced by shame, and then immediately after, another throb behind the eyes; he shut them, looking away. MacTavish gently guided his back to his with a thumb to his jaw, and he opened his eyes, blinking up at him. 

He had very green eyes, some part of Ghost’s brain noted, and he supposed if his brain didn’t actively feel like it was falling apart he’d find some excellent comparison for it. In the given moment, though, he felt like they would be a peaceful place to rest in; framed by dark brown eyelashes and scattered with flecks of blue, it was inexplicably grounding.

“You’re sure you’re not concussed?” MacTavish asked, and Ghost belatedly realised that was why he was checking his eyes.

“M’sure. I’d remember.”

“You wouldn’t,” MacTavish replied, smiling slightly, but let go all the same. A second later, though, the hand returned, pressed into the visible skin of Ghost’s face.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re warm.”

“There’s a small chance I’m sick.” 

“You don’t say.”

“Was pissing it down.” Ghost replied, fumbling clumsily with the straps of his vest. “Freezing there. And on the plane.”

He was clearly losing the fight against the straps on his vest, fingers fumbling; finally, he gave up, resigning himself to the fate of just having to rest with the vest digging into his back. The next moment, though, the mattress dipped as MacTavish rested a knee on it, leaning over him to undo the straps over his shoulder, tugging it off over his head. It wasn’t heavy, but Ghost sighed with relief at the weight off his chest all the same, and MacTavish placed it to one side. Reaching into his bedside drawer, he procured a blister packet, pushing out two tablets and handing them over to Ghost, who took them in his gloved hand. He hesitated for a moment; not, for once, about lifting the mask, because the captain was already studiously reading the blister packet, but because all of a sudden lifting his mask and then taking two tablets seemed like the most complicated thing he could have done, and he felt very tired. A few moments passed, and MacTavish looked up, surprised to still see them clutched safely in his hand.

“They’re for you to take, Riley.”

“I know.”

“D’you need water?”

“No.” 

MacTavish looked at him a second longer, himself tired, and a little frustrated; for whatever reason, the feeling of shame returned, hot and spiking. The next moment, though, his expression seemed to soften, and there was a warm hand on his knee.

“Come on,” he said, very softly, “you’ll feel better.”

It was halfway with the pills to his mouth, mask hooked over the bridge of his nose, that Ghost realised he absolutely shouldn’t’ve been taking them just in case the captain would speak to him in that soft voice again; that weakness, some bit of him reminded his exhausted self, was for weaker men. He hesitated, and MacTavish gently guided his hands to his mouth, pulling the mask down as he took the tablets, fingers brushing against the soft of his cheek.

“That’s it,” MacTavish replied, and Ghost felt inordinately happy for how much his head was still aching. The spinning had abated, and if he turned his head away from the light, so did the shooting pain in his eyes somewhat. “D’you want to go to medical now?”

It was a few moments before he realised what he had said, but as soon as he did—

“Why?”

“Look at you!”

“M’okay,” he replied, not because he thought it was true, but because if it wasn’t, he didn’t think he’d be able to bear going into medical. Not when he couldn’t stay awake for whatever they’d do to him, not when he still wasn’t really sure what was and wasn’t memory. He tried sitting up again, slower and resting on the backboard, trying to control his racing pulse— 

“You’re not okay, Ghost,” Soap replied, “be reasonable. What’s wrong with medical?”

Rationally, Ghost knew, nothing. It was safe, full of familiar faces, and no one would hurt him, but it was being weak, being pliable— too many threats, and he wasn’t in a position to fight back. And he hated it, hated the feeling of the tissue paper gowns and the buzz of fluorescent lights, hated the squeaking wheels and the scent of antiseptic and the whizzing of sharpening blades—

“Ghost?” MacTavish prompted, and the hand was back on his knee, a warm, comforting weight. 

“You won’t— be there,” Ghost replied, surprised as the words tumbled out of his mouth, surprised to find them sincere. MacTavish frowned, and then his eyebrows raised, and he glanced away. Ghost opened his mouth, like he wanted to amend what he said, but found himself coming up blank; the ibuprofen hadn’t kicked in yet, and he leaned back against the bed frame, looking up at the ceiling. 

Nothing was said for a few moments; MacTavish’s clock ticked, but he was a little too tired to go look to find out where exactly in the room it was coming from. 

The next moment, however, he felt something tugging at his laces; MacTavish pulled his laces undone and tugged his boots off, standing up and walking to place them next to his by the door. 

“D’you want to change before you sleep?” MacTavish asked, turning to him. “You’ll feel better.”

“Clothes are in my room,” Ghost replied, and then shifted to try and get out of bed. His head spun, but his feet landed on the ground, and he let himself pause a moment, eyes squeezing shut, before he began to try and remember how to stand up straight. “I’ll—…”

“Be honest,” MacTavish asked from the door, “d’you think you can walk there?” 

“I will,” Ghost responded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Just— give me a sec…” 

“Stop tryin’ to push yourself,” MacTavish frowned, and Ghost shook his head. 

“M’okay, sir, honestly, I’ll—…” 

“Ghost.”

Ghost pushed off the edge of the mattress, the ringing in his head suddenly increasing, standing unsteadily before finding his weight. The ringing subsided to a low metallic sound somewhere around his jaw, and he opened his eyes.

“M’alright, see? Sorry for falling on you.” 

“Lieutenant,” MacTavish frowned deeper, and he was trying to say something, but the ringing in his ears suddenly increased in pitch. He took an unsteady step forward, pleased to find himself still supporting his weight, and then another. He’d just put his boots by the door, so Ghost suddenly had to work out how he was supposed to get his feet into his boots and get his laces done. MacTavish was still saying something, voice a low thrum in his ears, but the blood rushed to his head as he ducked to pick up his shoes and it disappeared in the sound, until—

A hand on his wrist, and he pulled back so hard both his wrist, and the other’s knuckles, slammed into the wall. He overbalanced, and the next moment, his socks slipped on the hardwood floor, his shoulder slamming into the wall. The sound was like a gunshot, and his eyes squeezed shut— the next moment, hand on his wrist was replaced by two on his shoulders, steadying him— his chest was heaving with overexertion, and he blinked several times before he seemed to register the scene. MacTavish had two hands on his shoulders, eyes anxious as they looked at him.

“Calm down for a sec, Ghost, it’s just me.” 

Just MacTavish, some part of Ghost’s aching brain registered. If he was honest, he had no idea who he was expecting. He blinked again, head aching and a dull throb issuing from his shoulder. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t listening.”

“Clearly,” MacTavish replied, a little frustrated, and Ghost couldn’t help the way he shrunk a little at that. He was exhausted, and all of him seemed to hurt, and mortifyingly, he felt a sting in the corners of his eye— he wanted to sleep, but he still had all his gear on, and MacTavish was still talking to him, or maybe it was his heartbeat, and he was so, so, tired…

“Oh— no, Ghost, come on,” MacTavish said very softly, and he realised his eyes were swimming— he blinked to get rid of the tears, but instead, one caught on his eyelashes, soaking into the fabric of the mask as it fell. He lifted a hand to wipe it away, mortified, but MacTavish was there first, swiping at it with a thumb.

“‘M sorry,” Ghost said again. “I’m— I’m really tired.” 

“It’s okay,” MacTavish replied, “it’s fine. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Need to get you out of the gear, alright?”

“Keep on hurting you,” Ghost said out of the blue, as his eyes fell on MacTavish’s reddened knuckles. “Sorry.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied easily, with something almost like pride in his voice. “You can borrow some of my clothes, alright?”

Ghost shook his head.

“S’alright. Can get some of mine from my room.”

“Ghost…”

“I can do it,” Ghost replied, “I can do it. Just— I need— I need a second.”

“Stop. Just,” MacTavish gave him a little squeeze, “tell me what’s wrong, Ghost.”

He shook his head again, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Don’t want to… be a bother, sir,” Ghost finally admitted, voice quiet. “M’okay. Honestly.” 

“You’re not a bother. Ghost— you’re not bothering me, lad,” MacTavish replied, voice soft. “Oh— come on, now,” he said, wiping at his eyes again,  “it’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Ghost mumbled again, “I’m—…”

“Sh, now,” he murmured, “you’re alright. Just— how about you just step into the bathroom for me. We’ll get you changed and comfy, alright?” 

The light was bright, fluorescent, and Ghost stood with his back to the mirror, resting against the sink. His eyes were softly closed, and fluttered open as MacTavish came in. 

“Here.”

He was holding a bundle of clothes, and Ghost tried to take them in his hands— MacTavish pulled them back as he did.

“You’ve not even got your gloves off yet.”

“Alright,” Ghost murmured, tugging at the velcro that held it to his wrists. His hands fumbled as he tugged at them; MacTavish placed the clothes on the counter, and took his hands in his, pulling the gloves off. 

“Your hands are freezing.”

“Yours are warm.” 

“You’re exhausted,” MacTavish observed, lips curling upwards slightly at the corners as Ghost squeezed his hands.

“I might be sick.” 

“Can you get your shirt off?”

“Give me a sec,” Ghost replied, tugging at the hem of his shirt up. It got caught around his arms, and he sighed, before pulling it off—

“What the— fuck is that?” 

“Hm?”

MacTavish’s eyes were caught on a dark purple bruise all across Ghost’s front, stark against pale skin. Ghost, who had been reaching for the hoodie MacTavish had brought paused, and brought a defensive hand over his chest. 

“Just— the last bit, the hand to hand combat. Took a few shots. Vest took it.” 

“Jesus…”

“S’okay,” Ghost replied, and then tugged MacTavish’s hoodie over his head.

“You shouldn’t’ve agreed to that mission,” MacTavish replied, frowning. “This isn’t— fuckin’ hell, Riley, these are kill shots.”

He pulled his sleeves as far as they went, pulling the hoodie down— MacTavish sighed, and then pulled it down for him, pulling the sleeves up.

“The— the families showed up at the base,” Ghost answered after a moment, “one of ‘em got in a car, found the others.”

“Did they speak to you?”

“Dunno. Don’t speak Hausa. One of— one of the father’s, both his daughters’ had been taken, and he was just crying by the entrance. Said something to me— I dunno,” Ghost said again, and his eyes slipped closed, forehead resting against MacTavish for a moment. “‘M legally dead. I could’ve, so— so I did.”

“But you weren’t well. You’ve only made yourself worse by doin’ this.”

Ghost didn’t reply, still resting his head against him, eyes closed. Sighing, MacTavish rubbed at his back gently, before his hands fell to the gun still on his thigh. The weapons came off, next to the shirt, but MacTavish hesitated at his waistband.

“S’okay,” Ghost murmured, pulling himself off of him, “I’ve got it.”

“How about the mask?” MacTavish asked, turning to the towel rack, as Ghost unsteadily pulled off the trousers and pulled on the sweatpants. 

“You don’t think I sleep in it, do you?”

“I mean…”

Ghost huffed a laugh, and there was a slip of fabric behind him. MacTavish picked up the towel.

“It’s itchy after a while, sir.”

“Alright,” MacTavish said softly, and turned. 

He had blond hair, MacTavish noticed first, and high cheekbones. The black greasepaint was still smeared around his eyes, catching in the ridged skin of a scar across his eyebrows, and in the fine blond of his eyelashes; there was a ridged line running from under one cheekbone to the corner of his lips, and a smattering of scars almost like shrapnel. He had pink lips, MacTavish noted quietly.

“Here,” MacTavish said after a moment, and Ghost stepped silently to one side to let him run the towel under the warm tap, before turning to Ghost. He blinked at him a little sleepily.

“Sir?”

“Come on, eyes closed.” 

Ghost hesitated for a moment, but let his eyes flutter closed. Gently, MacTavish wiped away the greasepaint, keeping a thumb on his jaw to keep his face steady. Ghost didn’t outwardly react, but his face visibly softened as MacTavish readjusted his hand over his cheek, and sighed almost silently with contentment as he wiped the greasepaint off. 

“There you are,” MacTavish murmured, as the last of it came off on the towel. Ghost’s eyes flickered open; and there was a sudden, very tender moment, as they seemed to realise how close they were to each other. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t pull back, and the blue of his eyes seemed endless in the light.

“…You’re warm,” MacTavish said, and then pulled off his hand to press the back of his hand to Ghost’s forehead. 

“A bit.”

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?” 

Chapter Text

The sun was filtering through the blinds by the time MacTavish blinked himself awake. He was warm, was the first thing he noticed, and it wasn’t fully due to the golden sun catching the dust in the air— no, sometime in the night, Ghost had plastered himself to his front. It was funny until he noticed that he himself had two arms around him, keeping him there, and then it was a little embarrassing, and he hurriedly set about untangling himself in the least disruptive way. They hadn’t meant to share a bed; just that Ghost dug his heels in about making the captain sleep on the floor of his own room, and MacTavish was not about to let someone already ill spend a night on the floor either. They’d started the night on opposite ends of the bed; it had been a cold night, he reasoned, pulling himself from under him, and it had been a long night for both of them—

Ghost groaned in what was apparently annoyance as he shifted from under him, and MacTavish froze. Ghost pushed them back together, and didn’t wake up. It spoke to how tired he had to be that he didn’t even stir at the way MacTavish’s heart had to be thrumming in his chest. 

To distract himself, he put a hand to Ghost’s forehead. His cheek was squished against his chest, and blond eyelashes were softly closed; he readjusted his hair, raking a hand through it, before checking his temperature. Definitely too warm, his skin was flushed, and he sighed as he pressed the hand to his forehead. MacTavish watched the breath between his lips with wide eyes, before lying back, letting the hand run into his hair. It was soft, maybe a little too long for regulation— not that anyone saw it, he thought, before realising that he had. Idly, he raked a hand through it, backwards and then forwards, feeling the shorter hair around his ears and towards the back of his head. The implication that Ghost would be trimming his own hair was surprisingly endearing, and he smiled at nothing in particular. There was a light smell of citrus about that MacTavish didn’t recognise from any of his own soaps, and he sighed, letting him slow down to enjoy the moment for a while. The sun was still shining through the blinds; in a little while, it would shine in his eyes, and rouse call would wake up base, and the silence would be broken by soldiers waking up, getting ready, beginning their days. 

But for the moment, the sunlight was golden, and so were Ghost’s eyelashes in the light; glancing back up at the ceiling, MacTavish let his eyes slide shut.

All of a sudden, he realised that Ghost had gone still— and had been still for several moments. 

MacTavish’s hand paused in his hair.

Oh. 

He hadn’t really thought out the logistics of his actions.

Huh.

There were several moments where he seemed to work out what to do; finally, he settled on going limp.

His hand fell somewhere by Ghost’s head— there was a moment, and then the pressure from his chest disappeared as Ghost sat up.

“Are you fucking— pretending to sleep?”

“What would you suggest I do?” MacTavish replied through gritted teeth, eyes still closed. There was an odd sort of shaking, and MacTavish suddenly realised that Ghost was laughing silently, laughing at him. 

Finally, the shaking subsided, and MacTavish felt him sit up unsteadily, pausing for a long moment before apparently steeling himself, sliding out of bed and ambling to the bathroom. MacTavish swore he heard more laughter as the door locked. 

“Bastard,” he muttered, before sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. Glancing over at the abandoned tactical vest and weapons, he decided to make the short walk to hand it back in, taking advantage of the relative quiet of the morning. By the time he came back, Ghost was out of the bathroom, a hand on the nightstand to steady himself as he looked through it. Skin flushed, eyes half lidded and hair pushed back like he had raked a hand through it to get to settle— he glanced over as soon as MacTavish walked in, and a smile curled at his lips— pink lips, MacTavish noted again, numbly— before he returned to looking through the nightstand. 

“D’you have any more painkillers?”

“Think I gave you the last of it last night. Why, where’s it hurt?”

The smile appeared again, corners of his mouth ticked up, and MacTavish tried his very best to commit to memory. 

“Head. Face. Chest. Everywhere.”

“Did you get your ribs checked out?” MacTavish asked, eyebrows furrowing. Ghost nodded, and then successfully found a blister packet of what looked to be ibuprofen; he turned it over in his hands, squinting to read the back with apparent difficulty. MacTavish sighed gently, walking over to gently push him to sit on the bed, plucking the packet on his hand and reading over it.

“Think so. Didn’t— do it proper,” Ghost admitted, “didn’t like the medical wing there.”

“D’you like the medical wing anywhere?”

“Not opposed to it, sir,” Ghost replied, “just don’t like…”

The rest of the sentence trailed off, and Ghost blinked sleepily, before glancing up at MacTavish through those same thick eyelashes. MacTavish pushed out two of the tablets into his hand, and to his surprise, Ghost just opened his mouth a little as MacTavish gave them to him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he dry swallowed the tablets, and then sighed very softly. 

“Come on, can I check your ribs?”

“Don’t think they’re broken,” Ghost replied, shifting backwards to let him. “Maybe cracked.”

“Alright,” MacTavish replied, and started at the bottom ribs, pressing upwards. Ghost slipped backwards, and MacTavish let him down to lie down on the bed to stop him from falling. A knee to his side, and MacTavish didn’t realise how close they were until he was on top of him, one hand pushing into his bottom rib. But Ghost’s eyes were half lidded, looking away, more peaceful and calm than he had ever seen him— and MacTavish had no heart to say anything to it, so began to press gently. His first few ribs were fine, but at the sixth on the right side, about halfway up his chest, he winced.

“Alright?”

“Sore.”

The next was worse; he hissed softly through his teeth, exhaling slowly as MacTavish apologised, but at the next, his breathing hitched, eyes flickering wide and hands rushing to catch MacTavish’s wrist. All at once, he seemed to become aware of the proximity, and something far too close to fear flickered in his eyes— MacTavish pulled back, as Ghost tried unsteadily to prop himself up on an elbow—

“Cracked?”

“No— no, s’just on the bruise— sir,” Ghost added, eyes squeezing shut. “Hurts.”

“Can see that,” MacTavish replied, pulling at the hem of his hoodie up to look at the bruise. Ghost suddenly shifted backwards, eyes widening—

“Wait— wh— wait,” Ghost blurted out.

“Easy,” MacTavish replied, immediately letting go, hands placating. “It’s okay, Ghost, s’just me. I’m not goin’ to hurt you,” he added, as Ghost didn’t stop trying to move back. “It’s okay.”

“…It’s okay,” Ghost echoed after a moment, and let his eyes slide closed as he swallowed hard.

“Yeah? Can I keep goin’?”

“S’all sore when you press on it,” Ghost replied, voice quiet. 

“I’ll be gentle, alright? Can I lift up the hoodie, see where not to press?” 

“…Gentle,” Ghost finally acquiesced, lips turning up at the corners ever so slightly as he lay back down, eyes half lidded as they looked away. His hand was still on MacTavish’s wrist, but instead of letting go, he shifted so that his thumb rested in the dip in the heel of his hand, fingers loosely curled around the soft skin of his wrist. He pushed the pad of his thumb into the centre of his palm, before letting it drift to the shinier skin to the outside of his hand.

“How’d you do this one, sir?” 

“Put my hand on a stove by mistake,” MacTavish replied, watching as a lazy smile tugged at Ghost’s lips. “I was seven.” 

His thumb kept moving across his palm, raking over the thick skin that had formed after years of service. Carefully, MacTavish brought his hand to the hem of his hoodie, lifting it carefully. Ghost’s hand tightened minutely, and as he lifted the fabric, the muscles of his abdomen were tight with apparent anxiety.

“Jesus Christ…” 

The bruises had only gotten darker, a deep purple red, two points exactly over his chest. He had a variety of scars there— marks of cruelty more than a life well lived; a long, Y shaped scar across his chest in pale silver, dark cigarette burns, a shiny patch of skin, flat like it had been cut out, and under his ribs to the side, a dark brown shape, torn into the skin. The bruises, however, stood in starkest contrast, right over his heart. 

“S’okay,” Ghost said very softly, running his thumbnail over the lines in his palm. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Never letting you do this again,” MacTavish replied, fingers barely ghosting the stained skin, and then drifting to the torn scar on his side.

“S’part of the job, sir. My fault anyway, got cocky.”

“Ghost…”

“Thought I got all of ‘em. Would’ve been a hostage if I wasn’t careful.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t be workin’ sick, Riley,” MacTavish frowned, pushing carefully at his ribs, avoiding the bruises. Nothing was visibly out of place, and he pressed into each carefully. Ghost’s thumb was still running over the lines of his palm.

“I know,” Ghost murmured. “But they didn’t have anyone else.” 

“Riley…”

“‘M sorry,” Ghost replied softly. “Never know when to quit.”

“No,” MacTavish replied, with surprising fondness, “no, you don’t.”

He kept pressing gently upwards; Ghost’s skin was pale, and his fingertips left light pink marks as he moved upwards. 

“This alright?”

“Doesn’t hurt.”

“Good,” he replied, and as his hand readjusted itself around his wrist, “you’re doin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” Ghost asked, eyes opening a little further, finding MacTavish’s. His throat bobbed as he swallowed again, thumb pushing into the centre of his palm again.

“Course,” MacTavish replied. “You’re doin’ good. Doin’ so well for me.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, but Ghost relaxed ever so slightly under him, eyelashes fluttering. He pushed the last few ribs, pressing gently— if they were cracked, they’d ache no matter where he pushed. But Ghost didn’t wince, only the softest inhale from time to time as he pressed a sorer spot, and his thumb was making little circles into his palm as he pulled his hoodie back down. 

“Think you’re alright, then. Want to get some sleep?”

“Can I stay?”

MacTavish smiled slightly; he didn’t think he could help it. He brushed some of Ghost’s hair out of his eyes, and his eyes closed at the touch, leaning ever so slightly into it.

“Course you can,” he replied, voice tender. Ghost smiled again, closed lipped and warm, and MacTavish pulled the covers over him as he readjusted himself into bed.

By the time he came back, Ghost was cocooned in the sheets, only a mop of blond visible from one end of the bed and a solitary arm, loosely hanging off the bed. The curtains were open, throwing gold over the room, and it was warm as he walked in, a little before midday.

“Ghost.”

He didn’t reply, and in the silence of the room, MacTavish swore he could hear him snoring very quietly. He placed down everything he had brought with him on the office, and approached the bed quietly.

“Ghost?”

He didn’t stir; gently, MacTavish sat on one knee by the bed and pulled the blanket from his face. A slant of golden sunlight fell on his face, catching his eyelashes and the keloided skin by a scar. He was so relaxed, lips slightly parted, but at the sunlight, he squeezed his eyes shut and then let them flutter.

“Mornin’, sleepin’ beauty.”

“Y’think I’m beautiful?” Ghost asked, voice deep from tiredness and a lazy smile pulling at his lips. MacTavish huffed a laugh.

“Sure.”

“S’not very convincing,” Ghost grumbled, letting his eyes slide close. His voice was gravelly, but his tone was soft. 

“What d’you want me to say?” 

“Sweep me off my feet, sir,” Ghost replied, wiping at his eyes on his sleeve, and then at his lips. “Give it your best shot.”

“I wouldn’t be tellin’ you anything you didn’t already know, Riley,” MacTavish replied, tilting his head slightly. “Besides. Need the element of surprise.” 

“You’ve not just woken me up to tell me I’m beautiful?” Ghost asked, propping himself up on an elbow. MacTavish rolled his eyes.

“No. You sound like shit. Let me take your temperature.”

“Shit bedside manner.” 

MacTavish shook his head, standing up to his desk and picking up the thermometer.

“Open.”

“Could say please,” Ghost replied, unimpressed.

“D’you do anything without answering back?” 

“Only if you say please.”

“Alright,” MacTavish replied, pushing him to one side to sit on the bed next to him, “please.” 

“Please what?”

“Lieutenant—”

“Alright, alright,” Ghost relented, smiling slightly and opening his mouth. MacTavish put in the thermometer, and Ghost’s eyes closed as he leaned against the headboard. 

“Got you some of your own clothes, too. Figured you’d want to be out of my old hoodie.”

“S’very comfy,” Ghost replied, eyes opening, eyes soft and blue. “Nice and warm.”

“Keep your mouth closed for the reading. You want to keep it on?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re already warm enough,” MacTavish replied, lifting a hand to his forehead. “Mouth closed.”

“Yes, sir,” Ghost replied, with a lazy salute.

“Spoke to medical, got some antibiotics too.”

“Lunch?”

“It’s only eleven, and mouth closed,” MacTavish said again, before he leaned back. “You didn’t have breakfast, though, did you?”

“No.”

“Ghost—”

“Sorry,” Ghost murmured, looking away. His skin was still flushed, warm to the touch— MacTavish sighed without any real frustration, pushing the hair from his forehead.

“ Please keep your mouth closed ‘til we get a proper reading,” MacTavish tried softly, and when Ghost nodded instead of replying, smiled. “There’s a good lad.” 

Ghost’s eyes fluttered again, downturned and soft. MacTavish stood up, pulling the blankets over him again before standing up to the desk again and pushing aside a handful of clothes to his laptop. 

“Brought my laptop here.”

Ghost didn’t reply, but shrugged a little, tilting his head. 

“Wanted to work here. Thought I could keep an eye on you.” 

Another little shrug, but Ghost’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“D’you not want me here?” MacTavish asked, to which Ghost hurriedly shook his head, almost comically fast, and then immediately squeezed his eyes shut, like in pain. He rested against the headboard, and sighed, lips parting slightly, thermometer still in his mouth. Watching him, MacTavish’s eyes fell between the soft way his eyelids were closed, and the cupid’s bow of his lips. Ghost’s eyes cracked open, and he caught him looking, tilting his head and shrugging slightly.

“Nothing. D’you want to go back to bed?”

Ghost shook his head again, slower, the thermometer falling to one side. Wheeling his chair back, MacTavish approached the bed again, plucking the thermometer from his lips and glancing down at it with a frown.

“Hm?”

“38.6. Bad,” he added, as Ghost looked up at him. “I’ll give you some antibiotics.”

“S’not so bad.”

“No, but look at you. It could get worse.”

“Really,” Ghost replied softly, tilting his head. “I’m okay, sir. Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Who said I was worried?” 

“Sir—”

“Alright,” MacTavish smirked, “alright. Take two of these for me, I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Wait,” Ghost replied, catching his sleeve as he turned, “I’ll come with you.”

Rather than a full mask, MacTavish had brought a neck gaiter from his room, which Ghost pulled up to the bridge of his nose as he walked. He’d pulled himself into his boots and they bumped shoulders as they went, Ghost raking a hand through messy blond hair. 

“Alright?”

“Upright, so good enough,” Ghost replied, bumping into him again. “Not this way.”

“Hm?”

“To the kitchen.” 

“The kitchen staff’ll be here by now.”

“Not the kitchen in the west wing. Empty.”

“You know the schedule?” MacTavish replied, a little surprised. Ghost shrugged, eyes closing lightly, before he stretched and kept walking. His footsteps were silent over the floor, and MacTavish looked his fill as Ghost focused on looking ahead. His hair caught the light, cropped short, and as he pulled it back from his forehead again, a horizontal scar by his hairline became visible. MacTavish imagined that if he shut his eyes, he could trace his way down his face with his hands using the scars like a map; the thought of it had something stirring in his chest, and he looked ahead. The kitchen of the west wing was the smallest of the four that made up the Gibraltar base— it had pale tiles, and a wide window that showed a view of the green area of the base. Ghost ambled over to the fridge, opening it to look inside.

“Why d’you cook for yourself?” MacTavish asked, tilting his head as he leaned against a countertop. Ghost took out a stick of butter, and then some milk and eggs; he yawned before wiping at his eyes again.

“Hm?”

“Is the mess hall that bad?”

“S’not bad, just… not the last thing I’d want to eat before I die.”

“Seems a little morbid. I don’t think you’re goin’ to die from a bad cold, though.” 

“Wouldn’t mind a proper meal anyway,” Ghost replied, leaning against the countertops as he looked through cupboards. He stepped to open the next cupboard, leaning heavily against the counter, and huffed in frustration as it was empty from whatever he was looking for.

“What are you after?”

“Flour. Sugar.” 

“What’re you making?” MacTavish asked, taking over for him as Ghost paused, taking a breath.

“Pancakes.”

“That’s the last thing you’d want to eat before you die?” MacTavish asked, smile curling up on his lips. He stepped next to Ghost, opening the next cupboard next to him, and Ghost leaned against him gently as he took out flour, and then sugar.

“Maybe.”

“You sure you’re alright?” MacTavish asked, with a concerned glance over. Ghost shrugged again, the movement brushing against him; gently, then, he picked up the eggs and dragged a bowl over, cracking one in. Ghost watched, blinking slow, before lifting himself off of him and finding a pan, placing it on the stove and switching on the fire under it.

“If you were going to die,” he began, looking around for the butter, “what’d be your last meal?”

“Garrick’s asked me this before. Bottomless fries. Would never die.”

Ghost huffed a short laugh, catching in the fabric of the mask. MacTavish suddenly wondered if there was a way to get him to laugh with the mask off, just to see what it’d look like.

“Shit answer. You’d die miserable and full of fries. A real answer.”

“I dunno,” MacTavish replied honestly, spooning in some sugar. Ghost ate everything a little sweet, and for good measure, he added an extra tablespoon. “Never thought about it.”

“Always figured it’d be a shame to die not having remembered the last time you ate something worth eating. Fucking MREs.”

“Never pegged you as a food critic.”

“M’not picky,” Ghost replied, fishing in a drawer for a spoon and handing it over so he could spoon in the flour. “Just like to be able to get my food down without having to chug a bottle of water.” 

“High standards for this place. Do the cooks let you do this?” 

“I asked once. Told me to stay out o’ their way, clean up after, and they wouldn’t care. Not s’posed to let other people do it, though.” 

“So I’m not supposed to be here?”

“Nope,” Ghost replied easily. He opened the butter to spread it in the pan. “But I wanted—… thought you’d want to fix up a coffee at the same time. You don’t have to help,” he added, approaching like he was going to take over. MacTavish batted him away with no real force.

“Put on the kettle.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Ghost returned to his side as he mixed the batter, and when he stepped to the stove and melted butter on the pan, Ghost found two mugs and placed them side by side.

“How d’you have your coffee?”

“Tea’s alright. Milk, no sugar.”

“You’re always drinking coffee, though.”

“It’s all they have in the other kitchen, the one you’re always in.”

Ghost paused with his back turned to him, and MacTavish imagined if he could see his face his eyebrows would be furrowed. Finally, with a tiny shake of his head, he seemed to decide it wasn’t worth further deciphering, and found a box of old teabags, dropping one in each mug. In the meanwhile, MacTavish had poured the batter onto the pan, four smaller pancakes that were already cooking. 

“If I was goin’ to die,” MacTavish began, “and I could have anything I wanted… I dunno, I’d have Christmas Dinner, I think. With all the fixings.”

“You’d die completely stuffed.”

“And with no regrets.” 

Another short huff of a laugh. MacTavish really had to see it without the mask. He looked around for a spatula; wordlessly, Ghost handed one over.

“What about you, then?” 

“What I’d eat?” Ghost asked, pouring hot water into the cups.

“Not pancakes, surely.

“Told you I’m not picky. Anything that wasn't freeze-dried or bagged fifteen seconds before I got to it.” 

“Pancakes?”

“Captain—”

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you alone,” MacTavish grinned at the annoyance on his face. The smell of citrus had followed them into the kitchen; not quite lemon, something sweeter. Ghost walked over to get the milk, pouring a little of it in each cup before returning to put it back in the fridge. He was practically silent except for the fridge door opening and closing, and MacTavish imagined if he shut his eyes, he could have left behind him. But Ghost returned to his side, the two cups tapping against the counter, watching as he flipped the pancakes. There was something jarringly domestic about it; Ghost was watching, eyes half lidded, as he cooked the pancakes, sipping on tea, the mask pulled down under his chin. Finding a plate, he deposited the four pancakes on it, before pouring out four more. Ghost temporarily left his side to go get another plate, and pushed two of the pancakes onto the other. 

“Hm?”

“Don’t want any?”

“They’re for you.”

“Don’t want to eat alone,” Ghost replied, “and I wouldn’t make you cook for me and not eat anything.”

“I’d cook for you anyway,” MacTavish replied, shrugging. “Anything you like.”

“Really know a way to a man’s heart.”

“Through his stomach?” 

“Mhm. Through the ribs is more efficient, though,” Ghost replied, smiling into the rim of his cup. MacTavish huffed a laugh, but all of a sudden, he seemed to remember the thick bruises across his chest, and the humour soured. 

“Captain?”

MacTavish blinked, and rearranged his face into something more neutral. 

“S’nothing.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, lieutenant.”

“You don’t have to cook for me if you don’t want to.”

“S’not that, Riley. Just—…”

He flipped the pancakes, hand readjusting around the spatula.

“…Just?” He prompted after a moment.

“Don’t want you injured like that again,” MacTavish replied, jaw setting. Ghost paused a moment, and then nodded, turning to lean against the countertops.

“I’ll do my best.”

“I mean it.” 

“I know, sir, I’m sorry,” Ghost replied quietly.

“Don’t be sorry,” MacTavish replied, turning to him. “Just…” 

The scar over his cheek ran from under his cheekbone and to the corner of his mouth. It was deliberate from the corner of his lip, smooth white scar tissue, but stretched and tore the further from his mouth it went. The skin was slightly thicker around it, the scar tissue itself stretching across the wound, and it was so visually striking, more so against the soft pink of his lips, that MacTavish was suddenly struck by the urge to feel it under his fingertips, or against the softer skin to the side of his neck. 

“I wasn’t up waiting for the mission report,” MacTavish said instead. Ghost blinked. 

The pancakes were cooked, so he distributed them into the two plates— four for each, with a little butter. There wasn’t any fruit or syrup, and MacTavish looked around for some cutlery. When he made to leave, though, holding his plate and tea, Ghost nudged into him and began walking the other way. 

“Where’re we going?”

“Your room’ll smell like pancakes.”

“I like that smell. You didn’t answer the question.”

“Come on.”

With that ominous line, Ghost led him down a set of stairs, into the basement of the building— dim, cold, liminal corridors still painted in ageing blue— down a corridor, through a door that definitely should have been locked, and up another set of stairs. The wing of the base he had taken him to was empty, dusty, and smelled slightly of paint; two doors down, and Ghost shouldered open a door whose hinges groaned. Curious, MacTavish followed behind him.

It was an office at one point— that much was obviously from the ageing desk and painted walls, but like the rest of the wing it looked like it had begun being refurbished, white paint staining the wooden floors, before being abandoned. There was a foldout bunk in one corner, a crate of luggage in the other by some foldout chairs, and the desk was pushed to the wide window. It took up most of the back wall, with no curtains or blinds; the sky was just barely cloudy, and there was a short scrap of land before the sea, rolling blue-green and beautiful. MacTavish was struck by the view, looking out as the sea threw itself over and over at the coast— he imagined, if the window opened, he might have been able to hear it. Meanwhile, Ghost had placed the plate down on the desk, the cup tapping against the wood next to it, and had set about taking one of the foldout chairs and kicking it open.

“I didn’t know about this part of base.”

“It’s s’posed to have been refurbished for about eight years. Only open through the basement.”

“How’d you find it?” MacTavish asked, as he placed down his plate by his. Ghost kicked open the second chair.

“Was curious about the rooms facing the sea.”

“Do you sleep here?”

“Sometimes,” Ghost replied. “The lighthouse shines into the rooms at night. When it gets—… well, the sea’s massive,” he explained, before waving vaguely at the seat beside him. MacTavish took it, looking at him drily.

“You don’t say.”

“I know, but… look,” Ghost said, taking a seat besides him. He tugged the mask off again, under his chin, and looked out the window, the blue reflecting in his eyes. He could see it in his pupils, the wide horizons, the distant boats, even the waves reflected there. Breakfast, as late as it was, wafted in the air; idly, MacTavish took his tea, taking a sip of it. The movement seemed to catch Ghost’s attention, and he blinked his attention from the horizon, eyes settling on the breakfast in front of him, the stack of pancakes. He caught him still looking at him, and his eyebrows furrowed a little quizzically— MacTavish just shrugged a little, and turned inwards so he was facing Ghost a little more. 

The pancakes were sweet, a little too sweet for MacTavish’s liking; he ate them because Ghost liked them, and seemed happier when they ate together. It was a stupid conversation they got caught in, something about the last mission they’d had, but the meal passed in soft conversation— occasionally, Ghost would get distracted by a boat in the distance, and MacTavish followed the way his eyes would rake the horizon with something like hunger.

“Why not the Navy, then? Seems like you like the sea enough.”

“Never looked good in shorts,” Ghost replied, pushing his now empty cup aside to prop his head against his hand. The comment earned a little huff of laughter from MacTavish. “Why?”

“Just curious. Feels like I dunno much about you.” 

“I don’t think I keep that many secrets.”

“It took me six weeks to see if you had a forehead.” 

Ghost snorted at that; frustratingly, in the absence of the mask, he’d cover the smile with his other hand. MacTavish watched a second longer than necessary— Ghost, noticing, flushed a little and glanced back to the window.

“Couldn’t swim,” Ghost admitted, looking at the ocean. “Had to teach myself when I enlisted.”

“Really?”

“Watched some people swim, snuck into the deep end of the pool at midnight to try and copy it. No one was there.”

“In the deep end? What if you drowned?”

“All the more reason to swim properly,” Ghost replied, smiling. He turned to him again, eyes tender.

“What about you? Why’d you enlist, then?”

“Same reason as anyone.”

“Because the army promised three square meals?” 

MacTavish snorted; pleased, Ghost folded his arms in front of him and rested his head on them to look over at him. 

“No— no, and now I’m concerned about your motivations,” MacTavish replied, humoured. “No, because— I dunno, s’pose I wanted to be part o’ somethin’ bigger than myself. The means to make a difference, or somethin’.” 

“Very noble.”

“Better than your reason. You were fuckin’ hungry.”

“Mhm.”

“And then I became a corporal,” MacTavish continued, leaning back in his chair, taking his cup in his hands. “Had soldiers I was responsible for. Realised I could do better than whoever was already in command.”

“Yeah?”

“Never wanted to be the sort of CO that made their men feel expendable,” MacTavish replied, looking at the tea Ghost had made him. It was slowly getting colder, but the sun gleamed through the window, glittering across the sea. “Wanted to be better. Wanted to make an actual difference.” 

“You have.”

“Hm?”

“You have. Made a difference, I mean.” 

“War’s not over yet,” MacTavish replied, tone light. “We’ll see.”

“But you have,” Ghost insisted, turning further to face him. His cheek was squished against his arm, but his eyes were earnest, serious. “You’ve made a difference already. To me.” 

“Oh.”

There was a moment of quiet; MacTavish wasn’t sure how to correctly respond to that, nor the oddly warm feeling in his chest. Ghost seemed to realise what he said, and blanched again, looking towards the sea— he was so pale that he seemed to do it easily, and MacTavish became aware that if and when he’d draw him, it’d probably have to be in something softer than graphite. He needed to get the soft colour in his cheeks right.

Another boat sailed by; idly, his hand found Ghost’s knee, and he took another sip of his coffee, watching it across the ocean. Ghost seemed to still a little under the contact, but as it didn’t move, relaxed under it. The ocean glittered gold, the sky unendingly blue— the clouds drifted across the scene lazily. Their plates were empty, stacked one atop the other, and MacTavish drained his cup, looking out over the distance. It still smelled like paint, and citrus— oranges, maybe, but not quite. 

Ghost had fallen asleep, head still propped over his arms, breathing slowly. MacTavish leaned forward to look at him, eyes softly closed and cheeks lightly tinted. He took a long, slow breath.

“Up you get.”

“Mm.”

“Come on,” MacTavish said softly, breath close enough to whisper against his skin, and Ghost jolted awake, hand coming tight about whatever was in his hand— he realised, belatedly, that it was his hand. He blinked awake, and his head span as he sat up.

“M’awake, I’m awake,” Ghost mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”

“I need to go,” MacTavish replied, looking at him with something like fondness. The next second, though, his eyebrows furrowed. “You alright?”

“M’okay,” Ghost replied, “d’you— have any more painkillers?” 

“They’ll be in my room.” 

“What time’s it?”

“Just past one. Come on.”

MacTavish stood up, their hands still linked; Ghost wiped at his eyes again as he noticed, but his hands were pleasantly warm, so he had no heart to pull it apart.

“S’cold.”

“It really isn’t,” MacTavish replied, but then he frowned again, hand coming onto his forehead. It was warm, pleasantly so, and Ghost found himself leaning into it. “God, you’re warm.”

“Hm.”

“Let’s get you back to my room, alright?”

The walk over back to his room took them through the basement, freezing cold— Ghost shivered, so MacTavish pressed them a little closer together, keeping his hand in his. From the kitchen, they made the quick walk back to his room; as they arrived, MacTavish sat him down on the bed, immediately finding the thermometer from earlier. 

“Keep it under your tongue, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ghost waited quietly as MacTavish dug around for the antibiotics, reading over the dosage on the box. 

“It’s only two a day, your next dose is tonight. Want more ibuprofen?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll call the major, tell him I’ll be late—”

Ghost made a short noise of disagreement, eyebrows knitting. 

“What? Ghost, if I take out this thermometer and the next thing out your mouth is that you’re fine—”

“You said you needed to—” Ghost immediately started as the thermometer came out, and MacTavish pushed a hand to his mouth, shushing him. Ghost looked at him with almost amusing surprise as he checked the temperature.

“39.1 degrees. That’s worse. Don’t disagree with me here, and drink some water,” MacTavish replied, waiting a moment before lifting his hand—

“Sir—”

“Riley.”

“This isn’t—… worth missing wherever you’re meant to be,” Ghost replied, looking up at him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’d rather be here,” MacTavish answered honestly. Ghost only frowned.

“Why?” 

“Drink,” MacTavish ordered, collecting the cup of water by his side table and pushing it into Ghost’s hands. He turned around to get the painkillers, pushing them into Ghost’s hand. 

“Think the hoodie’ll have to come off, too.”

Ghost shook his head.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s really not, lad,” MacTavish replied, eyebrows furrowed, but Ghost shook his head again, draining the glass and wrapping his arms around himself. He was shivering still, shoulders drawn, and MacTavish looked on worriedly as he took the tablets. 

“We need to get your fever down.”

“No.”

“Riley—”

“I know, I know,” Ghost replied, eyes closing. “Just—… could you turn off the lights for a second?” 

“Close the curtains?”

“Could you?” Ghost asked, wincing as he opened his eyes. “It’s just— bright.”

“Course, yeah.”

He was up in a second, closing the curtains and blocking out the afternoon sunlight— Ghost sighed in what sounded like relief, putting his head in his hands. MacTavish was by his side in a second, a hand hesitating over him— he brought his hands up to him, and Ghost leaned into him.

“You’re so warm.”

“I’m really not.” 

“You’re a good temperature,” Ghost replied, and seemed to lift MacTavish's hand to his face, before deciding better of it, instead looking for the scar across the side of his hand. 

“Other hand.” 

“There it is,” Ghost said softly, as MacTavish handed him his other hand. “From a stove.”

“Mhm. My mam was makin’ soup. Smelled really good.” 

“You should go.”

“Why d’you want me to leave?” MacTavish asked, almost sounding hurt. Ghost bit the inside of his cheek, eyes tightening for a moment, before looking away.

“Don’t want you to go.”

“Stop tryin’ to get me leave, then.”

“‘M sorry,” Ghost said softly, meeting his eyes again, eyes powder blue.  

“I’ll get you some more water. Stay here.” 

Ghost had a new glass of water, and was back in bed, sat up under the now empty blanket covers. He wasn’t asleep, eyes half lidded as he watched MacTavish, who had started working at his desk. The slight light from his laptop reflected in his eyes as he shivered slightly, arms around him. The sound of people moving around was still just audible, scuffling footsteps and muffled conversations, and MacTavish glanced over a few times before pushing his feet to roll the chair to by his bed.

“What’re you lookin’ at?”

“Nothing. Just curious what you’re doing.” 

“Admin,” MacTavish replied, and stood up to bring his laptop over so Ghost could see. “Completely mundane. Sent Garrick over to sit the meeting for me, he’ll tell me if they decide to switch our brand of washing up liquid or whatever.”

“Makin’ a difference,” Ghost mumbled, and his head came to rest on MacTavish’s shoulder. MacTavish huffed a short laugh, unwilling to jostle him too much, and kept working, the sound of typing the only sound in the room aside from Ghost’s steadily evening breathing. 

About fifteen minutes in, his breathing suddenly hitched, and he jerked awake, eyes wide until they found MacTavish, before squeezing shut and settling a little, wiping at his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Come on,” MacTavish replied, tugging him back so that he was leaning against the headboard, before shifting to sit next to him. With a gentle pull, Ghost fell against his shoulder again, eyes half lidded as he watched MacTavish fill in forms. He fell asleep faster, curling up against him, warm against his side, and idly, MacTavish found his arm wrapping him, holding him there. 

Two ticked to three— the email summary of the meeting came and went, nothing relevant, and it was only when Ghost reached up, a hand coming up to his chest and then to his collar to tug at it.

“Ghost?”

“Can you— go get my captain?”

MacTavish glanced down, confused, but Ghost pulled them closer together, a hand still in his collar. 

“Right here, lad, what d’you need?”

“Captain MacTavish,” Ghost murmured, more insistent. “Can’t remember his badge number— but he… I need the hook out.”

“The hook?”

Ghost took his hand, drawing the shape of a hook into his palm with his index finger, before taking his hand and pushing it into his side. 

“Nothin’ there, lad.”

“It hurts.”

“Alright, but look.” He ran a thumb over the fabric, feeling unbroken skin under it. “Nothin’ there.” 

Ghost hesitated, and then untangled himself from him to lift up the hoodie with one hand, feeling the skin himself with the other. His eyelashes fluttered as he ran his fingertips over the dark brown stain to his side, just under his ribs, and let it trail up with something like muscle memory to a matching scar, star shaped, a little distance above it. Entry and exit points, MacTavish realised. He frowned a little, trying to look at Ghost’s expression, but his head was still turned away, looking over the skin.

“What d’you mean a hook, Riley?” 

“S’not there.”

“Like a meat hook?” 

“S’okay. S’gone.” 

“Riley.”

“Could you go get him?” Ghost asked again, pressing into the scar like the skin was still tender. “Hurts.”

“I’m right here, Ghost.”

Ghost didn’t reply, swallowing shakily, and MacTavish brought his hand around, bringing it to the scar, pressing into it gently. His skin was warm, clammy, and he made a small sound at the contact, shifting away from it. MacTavish caught him, turning his head towards him so he could see his eyes, looking up through thick eyelashes. His eyes were panicked, and he swallowed as he looked up at him.

“I’m here, okay?” 

“I don’t—…”

“It’s alright,” MacTavish said, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “You’re alright. Nothing’s there now.” 

Ghost wasn’t looking at him with any sort of recognition, but melted into the contact, taking a short, shaking breath and nodding all the same. 

“Hoodie has to come off, alright?”

“No— no, wait,” Ghost mumbled, trying to sit up and pull himself away in the same clumsy movement, “I don’t— want—”

“Easy— easy, lad,” MacTavish soothed, “I’m not doin’ anythin’ to you. I’ll get you a T-shirt. We just want your temperature down. S’only me.” 

“I—…” Ghost swallowed again, looking around, eyes settling on him again. His skin was pink, flushed, and there was a light sheen over his forehead, plastering his hair to his forehead. 

MacTavish lifted a hand to remove it, and Ghost winced, drawing away from it— MacTavish paused.

“Trust me for a sec, alright?” 

Ghost blinked, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before nodding. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” MacTavish echoed softly, wiping the hair from his forehead. He made a low noise at the contact, leaning into it a little, letting his eyes drift closed as he brushed his hand over that scar on his cheek, feeling the thickened skin by it. It pulled the corner of his lip up, an imitation of a smile, and he ran the pad of his thumb over it and over his lips, before pushing his laptop away and standing up to go find a T-shirt. He dug through his cupboard for something sufficiently comfortable, finding a baggier shirt, light grey, and circling back. Ghost was sitting cross-legged, blanket over his lap, and looked up apprehensively as he sat down opposite him.

“Alright?”

“Trust you,” Ghost said by way of reply, blinking up at him. MacTavish nodded, tugging up at the hem of his hoodie, murmuring gently as he shuddered. The bright red of the bruises were disappearing into purple, and Ghost seemed to come instinctively to the scar on his side again, pushing at it.

“Meat hook,” MacTavish murmured, looking at it, thinking of the little shape he had drawn into his hand, so much more tender than the evidence on his skin. Ghost’s file was redacted within an inch of its life, but even he could guess where someone like him went missing for a year in Mexico. His eyes drifted up, various lacerations, burns, marks, the patch of smooth skin like he had had it cut out of him, and then the Y-shaped scar, made with precision. Surgical precision.

The avoidance of the medical wing suddenly seemed a lot less unfounded. 

His hand had drifted to it unconsciously, running a knuckle across it. The pale scar tissue was only a little pinker than the skin by it, and ran in a diagonal over his heart, converging with its identical line opposite it at his sternum before travelling down. Ghost had gone completely still at the contact, only seeming to draw in breath once the touch was gone. When he looked up, however, Ghost’s eyes weren’t on the scar, or his hand, but his expression— watching, almost bracing. As he met his eye, he looked away, something almost like shame colouring his cheeks; MacTavish couldn’t have that. Instead, he let his hand drift up, tilting Ghost’s head up very slightly, before brushing a thumb across his jaw.

“Beautiful, aren’t you?”

His eyes widened, lips parting, and his eyebrows lifted; but more than that, MacTavish watched the colour bloom across his cheeks, bright pink, perfect. His mouth opened in protest, but with no real heat.

“Stop.”

“Right looker,” MacTavish added, for good measure. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

He pulled the T-shirt over his head; as soon as he had, Ghost moved to hide the almost embarrassed smile in his hand, before MacTavish pulled it away.

“None o’ that, now, let me see it. Need to get it right when I sketch it.” 

“You’re going to sketch me?” 

“Think I’ll have to.” 

Ghost just looked at him, a little starstruck, and MacTavish shook his head, before reaching up to brush the hair he had messed up back into something more manageable. Ghost leaned forward, resting his forehead into the crook of his neck, and his hand trailed down to the back of his neck.

“Alright?” 

“Captain MacTavish.” 

“Yeah?”

“Just makin’ sure.”

“No one else.” 

“Captain,” Ghost said again, and even though his face was hidden, MacTavish swore he could hear his smile. 

“Lieutenant,” he replied, running the hand up and down the back of his neck. The hair back here was choppier, like he’d struggled to cut it.

“John,” Ghost pushed, the smile definitely growing now. He was still warm where they made contact— leave it to Ghost, however, to manage to be insubordinate in the middle of a fever.

“Simon,” MacTavish replied, just to push a button. When Ghost went still, however, he turned his face inwards, pausing.

“Too far?”

“Wish you’d call me that more,” Ghost murmured after a moment. “Like it when you say it.”

“Yeah?” 

“Got a good accent.” 

“I’ll say whatever you want me to.” 

“Beautiful,” Ghost murmured again, huffing a quiet laugh into his neck. MacTavish let the hand slip down, running a hand over the curve of his spine, hand trailing to the scar from the hook under the shirt.

“Alright, beautiful,” MacTavish laughed, “back to bed?”

“More forms?”

“Got mission plans to be getting to,” MacTavish replied, shifting to sit back against the headboard and pulling the laptop back into his lap. Ghost settled beside him, head leaning safely against his shoulder, and watched the laptop screen as it flickered to life. 

“Captain,” Ghost murmured after several minutes, voice sleepy.

“Simon.”

“…Thank you.” 

“Go to sleep, lad,” MacTavish replied softly, lifting a hand to rake through his hair. His cheek was squished against his chest, his hair messy, and he blinked up at him through thick eyelashes. “You’re alright.”

When Ghost woke up, it was cold— the window was open, and he could hear the very faint roar of the sea. He blinked for a few seconds in the dark room, before realising what had woken him up; MacTavish’s phone was buzzing on the nightstand. He looked over at him, surprised to find him out cold by his side, a hand slung over his waist. The alarm was at an odd time, and he gently moved over to turn it off, before realising it was for the night dose of his antibiotics; finding the blister packet on the nightstand, he dry swallowed the next tablet along, replacing it with a glance over at MacTavish. He was still asleep, an arm still over him, mohawk thrown over the pillow, and Ghost smiled. Expression softened in sleep, he took long deep breaths, eyes softly closed. Silently, Ghost slid out of bed and took quiet steps to the window, closing it, looking out over the sea as he did. The lighthouse didn’t face that side of base, but he could see its light cast over the water intermittently. On bad nights, it kept him up when he slept in the other room, keeping him from nightmares. On better nights, he liked the shadows it cast over his room. Here, though, it was alright— guiding ships in the ocean. At night, it appeared inky black where light didn’t reflect on it, nearly disappearing into the navy sky. 

He turned back to the bed; MacTavish hadn’t rolled over or stirred, and he wiped at the sleep in his eyes. Their plates— Ghost didn’t exactly remember eating, but he guessed it had been a few hours— were stacked neatly on his desk, and his laptop was by the foot of the bed, the charger snaking over the sheets. Walking back over, he picked up the laptop and placed it on the bed, eyes falling on the notebook that had just been placed there, still wide open. His eyes fell on a sketch; messy, short hair, closed eyes, cheek pressed into something. It was sketched from the top, like he had been looking down at it, and he didn’t think he recognised it until he spotted the scar at the edge of his mouth. He blinked, and then his cheeks heated; he glanced over at MacTavish again, who was definitely still asleep, and hurriedly closed it before looking any further. His hand came to the same scar on his cheek, fingertips brushing against it, and then he wiped his hand through his hair, remembering the familiar sensation of MacTavish doing the same. He smelled like him, he realised, feeling a little dizzy— that deodorant MacTavish always used, something spiced and warm. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and willing the way his head was spinning to abate, he drank the full glass of water, before lying back down, climbing into the space he had left him. MacTavish made an indistinct noise, turning to wrap an arm around him again in sleep, before blinking awake, pulling himself up a little to look at him.

“Alright?”

“Just took the next dose.”

“Good lad,” MacTavish replied warmly, and let himself lie back down. Ghost turned away, looking insistently towards the door to hide the way his cheeks were warming again.

“Need anything? Painkillers? Water?”

“‘M’okay, sir.”

“You sure?” 

His eyes were half lidded, clover green, misty with sleep and unmovingly on him. A soft place to rest, Ghost thought numbly. Ghost let himself take a slow breath, drinking in his warmth.

“I’m okay, sir. I’m sure.”