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There was no air pollution that far from civilisation, and the sun had set hours before— it meant that the sky, otherwise clear, was a deep black above them, the stars strewn across it brightly white. It was a half moon in the sky, low to the horizon and yellow white— the constellations were brightly visible, a navigator’s dream; at the very edge of the base was where he found Ghost, half cloaked in shadow and still in perfect form where he stood on guard.
The stock of the gun rested in his hand, muzzle resting against his shoulder— the bayonet glimmered in the moonlight, silver metal catching the light. His back was straight, and his eyes flickered intermittently between the horizon and the undisturbed snow, raking over it carefully where he stood. As MacTavish came over, carrying both cups in his hands, he watched him readjust the heel of the gun in his hand, breath misting slightly even through the mask. The sunglasses were missing in the dark, and the skull mask had caught tiny droplets of condensation where they had frozen, glistening in the light.
“What I want to know,” he began, as he came over— with the mask and the weapon, Ghost might have looked threatening to anyone who couldn’t catch the glimmer of moonlight in his eyes and the way they were turned up to meet him, “is what you’ve done to piss off Major Farouq this badly.”
“What d’you mean?” Ghost replied, standing back and resting the gun back against his shoulder— they were both in several state of the art thermal layers, and now that the windchill had died down, pleasantly warm. The snow was compressed in a ring around the building where people had walked, the plains bright white in front of them.
“He’s had you on sentry guard— what is that, three nights in a row?”
“Farouq’s let me take sentry guard four nights in a row,” Ghost corrected, as MacTavish stood next to him— there was a bench set up behind them, but neither of them looked like they wanted to take a seat. The wind had carved waves into the snow in front of them, but it had since died down; the moonlight caught the ridge of patterns, a stationary sea. There was a sound in the distance, and Ghost’s eyes flickered to it immediately, bristling; when it was nothing, though, he relaxed minutely, returning to him.
“Why’ve you wanted to take night guard, then?”
“Better than sleeping.”
“Course,” MacTavish replied, humouring him, “nothing better than standin’ around seven hours a night in the cold with nothing but your thoughts.”
“Glad we’re on the same page,” Ghost agreed, looking back to the horizon again, but his eyes were warm, turned up into half moons. MacTavish huffed, a little disbelieving, before he pushed a cup towards him.
“What’s this?”
“Figured it was cold out,” he replied, as Ghost shifted the rifle from one hand to the other to take the cup, looking at it dubiously. “Mind, there’s no perishables, so it’s got about six sachets of coffee creamer in there.”
“Man after my own heart,” Ghost grinned, lifting the hem of the mask just above his mouth. In the cold, steam billowed from the tea in white tendrils, and MacTavish sipped at his own tea, warm on the way down. “Ah— wait, hold this.”
He dropped the rifle to catch it by the handguard, before passing it over to MacTavish; unzipping his jacket and then the hoodie underneath it, he dug around in an inside pocket before pulling out a sleeve of biscuits.
“You just carry those around?”
“C’mon,” Ghost insisted, taking a step back and sitting on the bench, “got the chocolate ones. Have some.”
“Go on, then,” he acquiesced easily, resting the rifle on the bench so he could take a seat. Zipping the hoodie and the jacket, Ghost knocked two biscuits into his hand, before taking a third for himself and leaving the sleeve in the space between them, carefully dipping the biscuit into the tea and biting it. MacTavish watched, amused, until Ghost caught his eye and scowled—
“What?”
“Brit through and through, aren’t you?”
“Piss off, sir, how d’you suggest I eat them?”
“Grind ‘em up, mix ‘em with your tea.”
“You make me sick,” Ghost groused, glower visible where he had lifted the mask, “you know that? Sick.”
“You haven’t even thanked me for the tea.”
“Tastes rank,” he snapped, with venom MacTavish almost felt he was playing up. With a disgruntled huff, Ghost sat back, sipping at the tea despite himself; MacTavish, instead of bothering him further, copied him and took a bite of one of the biscuits as he looked up. They were only there to oversee a training exercise, and the deployment lacked a lot of the adrenaline he’d come to associate with the job— under the bench, the snow remained undisturbed, and he kicked it as he looked at the constellations, trying to place them.
“Ursa Major,” Ghost replied, like he was reading his mind. “Up there, following that one— that’s Ursa Minor.”
“Which one’s the North Star?”
“Follow its tail,” Ghost instructed, tracing the shape with an outstretched finger. “The last one.”
“Funny. Didn’t think bears had tails.”
“No, me neither,” Ghost agreed, stifling the smile into the rim of his cup. “S’pose they didn’t know that when they named them.”
“You know them all, then?” MacTavish asked, looking over at him; Ghost, eyes still on the North Star, glanced over at him with a half shrug.
“The main ones. Used to drill my brother on them when he was still trying to impress his wife.”
“Drill him?”
“It was the closest I ever got to becoming a drill sergeant,” Ghost admitted, biting the remainder of his biscuit as he sipped at the tea. “I think he hated me by the end.”
“It got him married,” MacTavish pointed out, “he can’t have hated you that much.”
Ghost shrugged again, lips curved up with the memory and tentative in the way he got whenever his family came up; he passed the cup from hand to hand as he scanned the horizon again. Sentry guard was more of a pleasantry than anything, seeing as the heavy diesel engines needed to get over the snowy plains would wake anyone on the base up before any hostiles managed to infiltrate the base, and the single road that led up to the base was already watched by several guards— he didn’t feel particularly concerned about keeping Ghost from his duties, then, as they warmed up side by side, MacTavish taking another biscuit.
“How’s your sister, then? Your niece?” Ghost asked, blowing on his tea before taking another sip. MacTavish rummaged around in his pockets, procuring his phone.
“Sent me pictures before we got here. This is her.”
The screen was small, but Ghost leaned in to look at Cecelia— six months, she hadn’t grown much hair yet, still a little chubby and scowling at the camera like it had personally wronged her. His mother had sent it to him, and she was dressed in a particularly frilly dress that he was almost sure his father had picked out for one of his older sisters, years old and passed down. Ghost positively grinned as he tilted his wrist to look at the screen, eyes catching the phone light—
“She looks a lot like you, sir,” Ghost told him, as MacTavish baulked— and then, softer, “she’s precious.”
Unfair, MacTavish suddenly thought, that Ghost managed to piss him off and then immediately knock all the fight out of him with two words— regardless, he suddenly found himself unwilling to interrupt the moment of quiet they’d stumbled across, watching the soft expression in Ghost’s eyes. The cup had warmed his gloves, and he could feel heat seeping in from the contact as Ghost took in all the little details; finally, he let go, and MacTavish pushed them a little closer together, conserving what little heat there was between them.
“You ever wanted anything after this?” MacTavish found himself asking before he could stop himself, as Ghost stifled a yawn. “After— all of this?”
“What, for retirement?” Ghost asked, with a sidelong look at him; MacTavish didn’t back down, taking another sip of the tea. It was already cooling, but still warm enough in the cold night air; Ghost seemed to consider the question, swilling the tea carefully. “No. Do you?”
“Yeah,” he replied, looking at him. “I do.”
Ghost blinked, and when he didn’t answer, tilted his head.
“What’s that?”
MacTavish huffed a laugh, watching Ghost’s eyes narrow in confusion, before turning back to the plains ahead of them—
“One of those— houses, with windows that face the sunrise. Think it’d be nice,” he said, suddenly shy with the admission, wiping a hand over his beard. “You know. In the mornings.”
“That all?” Ghost asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“What, is that not enough?”
“Dunno. Thought it would be something big. White picket fence, girl on your arm, family, kids…”
“Negative. I want windows.”
Ghost spluttered, choking on the tea and coughing into the crook of his elbow; whatever reaction MacTavish had been expecting, it hadn’t been that, and he couldn’t help the bark of laughter at his expense until Ghost was glaring at him venomously, wiping his mouth and tugging the mask.
“Fucking wanker, you are— take your tea,” he growled, shoving the cup towards him with what might have been embarassment, “tasted like shit anyways, I didn’t want it. Fucking windows.”
“Yeah? What d’you want, then, once this is all over?” MacTavish laughed, as Ghost crossed his arms, glowering at the near distance.
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Nothing. And I strongly doubt I’m getting to retirement age anyway.”
The comment landed slightly sour; he couldn’t help the little pause, and he knew Ghost had seen it, based on the way what little of his expression he could see smoothed out in a learned sort of indifference.
The other side of the Glasgow smile, newly earned, was healing pink, barely visible when he had pulled the mask up.
“Pretend, then,” MacTavish suggested, voice quiet. Ghost glanced over, and seemed to consider it, shifting so his foot nudged into his.
“I— I dunno,” Ghost said honestly. “When I was a kid, one of our neighbours had one of those gardens where she’d grow anything. Used to let me and my brother take whatever we wanted.”
“Yeah?” MacTavish pushed, handing the tea back to him. Ghost passed it from hand to hand, and MacTavish imagined the way he’d bite the inside of his cheek to stifle the smile.
“Never had a green thumb. I— dunno if I could retire,” he admitted, “even if they let me. Apartment’s too quiet.”
“But you’d have a garden?”
Ghost visibly hesitated around the answer, as if there was a wrong one; to buy some time, he lifted the mask and sipped the tea, lips curving around the rim of the cup. MacTavish drank his own tea, warming his lips and the tip of his nose around it.
“She had apple trees. And me and Tommy’d shove as many in our pockets as we could. Got sick of ‘em by the end. I’d have a garden with a load of different fruits.”
He kept his eyes away from him, looking between the snow and the horizon like there was something there; increasingly fidgety when he didn’t say anything, he took another angry sip of his tea, before snatching up a biscuit and biting into it with the same vitriol.
“I’d paint my walls blue,” MacTavish said, and it rather felt like a confession— softness not suited for men like them. “Light blue. Plant sunflowers.”
“They're your favourite?” Ghost asked, tension dissolving despite himself.
“How’d you know?”
“Got a favourite of everything, haven’t you? I’d plant you sunflowers.”
The promise, earnest and serious, earned a huff of a laugh from MacTavish— Ghost frowned, and MacTavish knocked a good-natured leg into his as he lifted the mask again and took a sip, before stifling another yawn into his arm. Satisfied, MacTavish sat back.
“What’s in this, anyway?” He asked, with a look down at it. “Why’s it taste like that?”
“Farouq had a few chamomile tea bags lyin’ around.”
“Chamomile?” Ghost echoed, lips curling in visible disgust. “What for?”
“Had to get you to sleep somehow.”
“Well, it’s not working,” he replied, crossing his arms. MacTavish shot him a look, before picking up another biscuit— despite his earlier ribbing, he dipped it into his tea before eating it, the chocolate complimenting the bitter tea.
“Go on,” MacTavish said quietly, before biting into it. “You can catch a few hours out here.”
“It’s bloody freezing.”
“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
In lieu of a reply, Ghost shuffled on the bench against the cold, eyes raking over the horizon and shoulders rounded. From time to time, MacTavish wondered if it wasn’t exhausting, being so on guard all the time— it was just the two of them, and no one else was awake, and any other soldier would take the invitation and be out cold by that point. Someone, somewhere, had had to make Ghost the way he was; when he thought about it too hard, it made him want to rip their heart out of their chest.
“What about you?” Ghost asked softly. “You have to sleep at some point, sir.”
“Double-strength,” he replied, waving his cup at him. “I’ll be up for hours.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” MacTavish shrugged. Ghost frowned a little; in the moonlight, his eyelashes were caught in white, delicate against pale skin. He seemed to debate something, jaw moving like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek—
“It’s— the nightmares,” he admitted, eyes focusing on the zip of MacTavish’s jacket rather than meeting his eye. “Get worse when it’s cold out.”
“I’ll be here when you wake up, though,” he reminded him softly.
It didn’t seem to be the answer Ghost was expecting, and he looked up at him, at their cups, fingers fidgeting like he was looking for something to say— but finally, he seemed to settle, blinking a few times and draining the tea. Reaching over, he pulled his rifle closer to the both of them, before dropping the sleeve of biscuits in MacTavish lap, putting the empty cup down and leaning back. With a tug, MacTavish pulled him to rest against his shoulder, careful of his cheek; tentatively, Ghost crossed his arms over his chest, readjusting his head when MacTavish took a sip of tea, again when he took a biscuit, and when he took another drink of tea—
“Bloody hell, sir,” Ghost grumbled, nudging into him. “Stop squirming.”
“Squirming?”
“Stay still,” he complained, nudging into him again.
“And I’m some sort of pillow to you?”
“An uncomfortable one,” Ghost snapped back, tightening his arms across his chest before twisting into his space.
“What’re you fallin’ asleep on me for, then?”
Ghost finally seemed to find somewhere comfy, settling against him; he didn’t dignify the question with a response as a light breeze blew over them, whispering down where MacTavish’s jacket wasn’t fully zipped up and freezing at the back of his neck. He leant over carefully to make sure Ghost’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, and when he looked up, Ghost’s eyes were open.
“You’ll keep watch?” He asked, as if to confirm.
“We’d hear anyone coming from about 10 miles away.”
“Still.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep watch, defend the base with my life, keep you safe. Whatever you want.”
Ghost huffed a laugh, pushing a little closer into him; he tipped his head back to look up at him.
“Keep me safe?” He echoed, grinning up at him. MacTavish grunted, wrapping an arm around him to keep him close— whether it was the layers, or the quiet of the moment, Ghost seemed content with it, letting his eyes close.
“Yeah, I’ll keep you safe,” he said softly, looking ahead to the horizon. Ghost nodded idly, half listening; the tea was definitely getting cold, but MacTavish passed it from hand to hand carefully to try and conserve what little warmth it had left, careful not to jostle Ghost any further.