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The insomnia was more of an unacknowledged truth than an open secret; it wasn’t like Ghost ever pretended to sleep properly, being awake at all hours of night, but it wasn’t like he ever outright took help for it, either— that would require admitting there was a problem, a weakness in the façade that made up Ghost.
Still, anyone could work out what was happening between the new and increased irritability, the droop in his shoulders and the purple stains under his eyes, whether Ghost admitted to it or not— two missions back to back, the paperwork for the mission he had ran and training drills had kicked whatever system that kept Ghost awake into overdrive. It wasn’t in dangerous territory yet, and he’d only snapped at four soldiers and an officer, but he definitely wasn’t supposed to be knocking at MacTavish’s office at half past midnight on a Wednesday morning, knuckle guards tapping against the wood more than his actual knuckles.
MacTavish’s office was dark, the lights pale yellow. The reflection of the light blocked the view of the sliver of the night sky outside, and he was making steady progress on the pile of paperwork on his desk before Ghost knocked, pausing to look up.
“Riley?”
“Captain.”
The door swung open, and Ghost didn’t immediately walk in, standing in the doorway. He was in that hoodie again, the soft fabric making him look comfortable even as he was swathed in it; his hood was up, a plain mask on, and he had one hand on the door handle. His eyes were drooping, and he wiped at them with his free hand before saying anything, pushing it into his pocket.
“What is it?”
Ghost half shrugged, leaning against the door frame. The corridor behind him was dark, and he almost blended into it, his eyes reflecting the light.
“Spit it out, lieutenant.”
“Can— I sleep here, sir?”
MacTavish blinked.
“What?”
“You work into the mornings on Wednesday’s. Just until you go.”
Ghost was clearly tired enough to ask, even despite the way he was folding his arms across his chest and the studious way he was avoiding his eyes. Tiredness had softened the harsher edges of his expression, and he blinked when MacTavish didn’t say anything, stiffening by reflex; he was already unfolding his arms to reach for the door handle when he spoke.
“Alright. I’ll wake you up when I leave.”
“Thanks,” Ghost mumbled immediately, kicking the door shut behind him and striding to the sofa. He lied down without much prompting; MacTavish picked up the hoodie thrown over the back of his chair and threw it over him, where it landed on his face.
“What was that for?” He scowled, tugging it off and looking up at him.
“Blanket.”
“Careful, sir, it’s a bit big,” Ghost replied, pulling the hoodie so that it barely managed to cover his torso. “Might suffocate.”
“Could put you to sleep faster,” MacTavish replied; Ghost snorted, before pulling the hoodie off of him and punching it into a more comfortable shape, tugging off his mask. The gloves came off next, and he pushed his makeshift pillow into the juncture where the armrest met the back of the sofa, placing his head down safely in the corner. The mask and the gloves went by his head, stacked neatly atop each other, and the folds of MacTavish’s hoodie hid his face as he curled up slightly, so that all that was really visible of him was the mop of blond.
He didn’t sleep restfully, though; MacTavish returned to his work as Ghost twisted and turned; he’d shift, and wipe his hands against his hoodie, and then the leather would squeak, and he’d readjust his head against the hoodie, and MacTavish finally got impatient when he sat up, having apparently forgotten to take off his boots, and began tugging at his laces.
“Riley.”
“What?”
“You’re not goin’ to be able to sleep if you keep fidgeting, are you?”
“Don’t think I’m going to sleep anyway,” Ghost grumbled, tugging off his laces. His boots, like his gloves, were neatly stacked, although instead they were side by side by the bed. MacTavish shook his head, before he noticed his socks; black, patterned with tiny little ghosts wailing in a ring around his ankles. He didn’t think he outwardly reacted, but he must have, based on the way Ghost was immediately scowling like a cat, eyes narrowed and lips downturned.
“They were a gift.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, fuck off. They’re comfortable.”
“And very on brand.”
Ghost glowered at him, before it seemed to occur to him that he still needed to sleep— he laid down again, arms still crossed over his chest, glaring at nothing on the ceiling.
Despite the energy, it was obvious he was exhausted; his eyes didn’t seem to close as he blinked sleepily at the ceiling, and he kept shifting, only quieter where he didn’t seem to want to draw attention to himself.
“Riley,” MacTavish said again, after several moments.
“Mh?”
MacTavish let go of his laptop to look up at him; Ghost had his head closer to MacTavish’s desk, and looked through his eyelashes to look at him.
“What’s goin’ to help you sleep?”
“Am I keeping you from working?” Ghost asked, sitting up slightly.
“No, but— come on, you’re exhausted. What’ll help?”
“I—…” Ghost blinked, like he genuinely hadn’t expected any help from MacTavish. He seemed to consider it, turning it over in his head, before he laid back down, on his side so that he could look up and see him.
“It’s the quiet. S’too quiet in my bedroom.”
“Yeah?”
Ghost shifted again, so that more of his face was buried in the hoodie.
“Talk to me about the sights in the range, sir.”
“You were there this afternoon.”
“I know.”
“Alright— uh— there’s your SUSAT, they’ve got Trijicon ACOGs, I know our range just got in some red dot sights but I don’t see why—”
“Slower,” Ghost mumbled, shifting to hide his face into the crook of his elbow. And then: “d’you have a favourite, sir?”
MacTavish huffed, a little amused, a little incredulous; when he didn’t say anything, Ghost blinked up at him, blue eyes reflected the warm light.
“Don’t have to,” he mumbled, voice low with tiredness; MacTavish shook his head and opened the lowest drawer of his desk. His sister had given him the blanket in their last care package, fleecy and patterned with diamonds, and it usually lived in his room; Wednesdays were always the nights he stayed late in the office to catch up on the backlog that missions always caused, to pick up the slack of other officers, and so he put the blanket in his room in case it became very late and he needed to have a short nap and get back to it. It occurred to him Ghost knew this; how he had found out was something to be ascertained another day, however. So instead, he tugged the blanket out, and walked over to Ghost.
Ghost’s eyebrows furrowed as he did, clearly not understanding; MacTavish ignored him to throw the blanket over him, making sure it covered him properly.
“What’s this?”
“What’s it look like?”
“What, for me?”
“No,” MacTavish replied, pulling it over his shoulders, “for the sofa. You’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
“Fucker.”
“Favourites overall is the Trijicon,” MacTavish began, smiling slightly as he sat back down, “uh— ACOG, that’s Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight, isn’t it? More durable, got your variable magnification. Specter isn’t bad either.”
“Yeah?”
“Wide field of view, alright for close range and long range— this really what you wanted to put you to sleep?”
“‘M listening, sir.”
“This your idea of bedtime stories, lieutenant?”
“What, got any better ones?” Ghost asked, blinking up at him again.
“Come on, surely you had a favourite when you were a kid, right? Better than gunsights?”
Ghost huffed a short laugh, catching in the fabric of his hoodie, before curling up under the blanket again. It was soft, navy blue and white, and his eyelashes fluttered as he didn’t reply. Readjusting the papers on his desk, MacTavish looked over at him again.
“No?”
“No. No bedtime stories,” Ghost replied, eyes closing again.
He didn’t know why it made him pause as much as it did; when he didn’t say anything, Ghost opened his eyes, and then frowned.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?”
“Like what?”
“Bloody hell,” Ghost sat up, propping himself up, “it’s not that sad. You look like I’ve just kicked a dog.”
“Don’t like dogs. Don’t think I’d be that upset if you kicked one.”
“Stone cold, sir,” Ghost replied, lying back down. He didn’t close his eyes, though, and he could see him blinking up at the ceiling. “Slept fine without one.”
“How can you know that, if no one ever told you one?”
“Wasn’t going to be a story that helped me sleep, sir,” Ghost replied, looking up at him. It seemed to occur to MacTavish that he really didn’t know as much about Ghost as he might have liked, and he tilted his head, looking at him.
“What would’ve, then?”
Without the mask, MacTavish watched the half sort of smile that tugged up at his lips, before he shook his head, looking ahead and apparently considering the question.
“Dunno,” he replied finally. And then, with a huff of a laugh: “a lock, probably.”
If the tidbit about the bedtime stories hadn’t already given him pause, that certainly did. Ghost didn’t look up for his reaction, but seemed to pause all the same, almost like he was bracing— after several moments, MacTavish turned back to his laptop, typing in a few more letters, and Ghost made a sound that might have been another short laugh, or a sigh.
“Still got that book in here?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Ghost replied, shifting to reach under the sofa to pick it up. “Only place I can read it in peace.”
The book itself was dog eared, the plastic backing peeling in his hands; Ghost flicked through it with muscle memory before letting his arm flop back down, the book hanging from his fingers. MacTavish watched the way his thumb brushed over the spine, creased and marked from where Ghost folded the book over itself to read it.
“Hand it over.”
“Captain,” Ghost replied, immediately catching on; he was incredulous as he was amused, sitting up on his forearm.
“Lieutenant.”
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
“ No.”
“That was a direct order, lieutenant.”
Ghost opened his mouth to argue, but only seemed to find MacTavish’s unmoving expression; he closed his mouth and couldn’t seem to find anything to say, and instead, his cheeks coloured slightly with what was apparently pre-emptive embarrassment. MacTavish held out a hand— Ghost stood up, passed him the book, and flopped back down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around him again. He looked cosy, between the socks and the blanket, but was studiously avoiding his eye; MacTavish glanced down to the book.
“Private Peaceful. What’s this about?”
“‘S World War One. Two brothers. One of ‘em’s called Tommy.”
“Lie down, would you?”
MacTavish was an alright reader; he wasn’t going to lie and say it was a particularly standard experience to be reading stories to anyone, but he was the youngest captain in the SAS for a reason—he knew exactly how to grit his jaw and act like he knew what he was doing.
“Where’s your bookmark?”
“Start from wherever. Doesn’t matter.”
“Alright,” MacTavish replied, “uh—”
He flicked it open to a random page, licking at his lips; Ghost was lying down, but still looking at him like he didn’t believe what he was about to do. That only seemed to incentivise him, and he began reading.
“‘Twenty five past three. The mouse is here again. He keeps stopping and looking up at me.’”
MacTavish glanced up to Ghost, who was still watching him, a tiny, disbelieving smile on his lips. As their eyes met, Ghost shook his head, stifling the smile into hand. “‘He’s wondering if he should run away, whether I’m friend or foe.’” He stopped to look at the next few words, disbelieving.
“Go on,” Ghost prompted, “course you’d find this part.”
“‘“Wee, sleekit, caw’rin tim’rous beastie,”’” he read, accent bleeding into the words. He glanced up at Ghost, finding his lips barely moving as he mouthed the words along. “You know this part?”
At the question, he gave a half shrug, eyes half lidded.
“Know it all. Read it twice a day all the way through for a month once.”
“You liked it that much?” MacTavish asked, tilting his head. Ghost’s eyes flickered between him and the book, and he reached up to tug gently at the strings of his hoodie, stifling a yawn into the crook of his elbow.
“Not that much. But I had a stutter— years back,” he replied softly, quiet in the way he got whenever he divulged anything about himself. “Speech therapist told me to try reading out loud. It was my nephew’s reading book in school, and he couldn’t get through it himself. Practised for a month before I could do it properly.”
“You wanted to read it to him?”
Another half shrug, except this time, Ghost’s eyes slipped shut, and he blinked deliberately, trying to keep his eyes open. MacTavish found himself softening all the same, and leant back to keep reading.
“‘I don’t know what half the words mean, but I still know the poem. Back at school Miss McAllister made us stand up and recite it on Burns Day. She said it was good for us to have at least one great Scottish poem in our heads for ever’— and she’s right,” MacTavish interjected, earning him a soft huff of laughter from Ghost. “‘This wee beastie is tim’rous all right, but he’s not Scottish, he’s a Belgian mouse. I recite the poem to him all the same. He—”
He heard a slow exhale, and glanced up; Ghost, it seemed, was tired enough that that was all he needed. He was still wrapped in the blanket, and had shifted to hide his face in his arm again— he kept the hoodie safely to him, as if he was half expecting MacTavish to take it back.
“‘He seems to understand because he listens politely,’” he concluded, as Ghost took slow, even breaths. “‘I do it in Miss McAllister’s Scottish accent.’”
Ghost was definitely asleep; after a handful of moments, MacTavish stood up, walking over and silently replacing his book under the sofa before switching off the lights and continuing to work in the dim light of his laptop.