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“Mm, your laptop’s warm,” Ghost mumbled into his shoulder, finally letting his book fall to the mattress with a flump as he gave up reading it; it was a beaten-up old thing, borrowed from the library on base and covered in lines where it had been read by so many people over the years. MacTavish had watched Ghost increasingly struggle to keep his eyes open to read it; he got the impression Ghost wanted to stay awake strictly because he was, and huffed, a little endeared, as he looked over.
“I can go to my desk, if it’s too hot.”
“Nah, s’good,” Ghost replied, lying further down and curling a little closer to the heat radiating off of it— “nice and warm.”
“You going to sleep?” He asked, feeling himself sink into the mattress— the sheets still smelled like detergent, and the room was aglow with soft lamp light, Ghost’s mask and glasses neatly stacked by their bed.
“No,” Ghost replied— an outright lie, seeing as his eyes were slipping shut even as he spoke; with what appeared to be the last of his energy, he reached over to deposit the book on their bedside table, before tugging their blanket higher on Soap. “Wide awake.”
“Good,” MacTavish found himself saying, looking back to his laptop, where the letters were illegible— “keep it that way.”
Ghost went quiet, like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek; softly, the clock in their room was ticking, and the sliver of sky visible where one of them had forgotten to fully pull it down. Absently, he raked a hand through Ghost’s hair without looking down at him, and Ghost didn’t move, the heat off his laptop getting hotter,
“I’m tired, though.”
“Yeah, I know,” he replied quietly; the light was getting brighter, but the sky outside stayed firmly dark. “You have to stay awake.”
The heat off his laptop was getting to be unbearable, melting in the space between them and sticking the fabric of his cargos to his legs; Ghost made a short sound, plaintive and stifled behind his teeth.
“Captain.”
“I know,” he soothed, and he knew something was wrong; they were in their bedroom, and it was late, but he could smell copper and iron and gunpowder from nowhere. “I know. Just keep pressure on it.”
“I— shit, okay,” Ghost nodded, and he could hear the way he swallowed down a harsh groan as he shifted— MacTavish still didn’t look at him, looking at his own hands, confused. “It’s not— the bleeding isn’t stopping, sir, I—”
“The bleeding?”
He looked over at Ghost— he had the mask on, eyes wide and pupils tiny in the light as he gasped for air, and looked unbearably scared. The mask made no sense— confused, MacTavish looked back to their nightstand where he had left it, but found the dirty streets of Baghlan behind him, and he was twenty two, and too scared to do anything but press his hands into the glossy scarlet seeping through his hoodie, feeling blood stick under his nails and into the crevices of his hands— he was on his knees by Ghost, pressing the heels of his palms into the bullet wound in his chest, as Ghost kept a vice grip on his wrist to keep them pushed into it, gasping and choking for air—
“I know, I know— medivac’s only a few klicks out, Ghost, c’mon, stay awake—”
“I’m— I can’t— sir,” Ghost implored, and he could hear the click of his teeth as he gritted his teeth together— he squeezed his eyes shut, knocking his head back into the unforgiving tarmac of the road, and MacTavish let go of the wound to cushion one hand under his head—
“Sh, sh, you’re goin’ to be okay, you’re goin’ to be fine, Riley—”
“I don’t want to die,” Ghost whispered, barely audible over the roar of diesel engines and the staccato pops of gunfire and the burning sun into the back of his neck— “God, sir, I— I don’t want t’ die—”
“You’re not goin’ to,” MacTavish promised, with conviction he was too scared to acknowledge as artificial— “you’re not goin’ to, Simon, I got you— I got you, just stay awake, stay awake for me—”
“John,” Ghost murmured, sounding weak and thready and far too small— they were running out of time, and he could hear his comms crackling in his ear, words inaudible. The heat was blinding, and all he could see, all he could smell, was blood—
All at once, all the air was punched out of his stomach.
With a wheeze, he sat up, eyes wide as he scanned for hostiles, scrambling for the gun he always kept under the mattress— he came up empty on both fronts, though, as his eyes jerked from his bureau to the curtains his sister had picked out for him when he had first moved into his apartment, to the clothes he had left messily around his room. A flash of orange slinked out of his room out of the corner of his eye, and he wiped a clammy hand over his forehead and eyes, before diving across his bed and snatching his phone from his nightstand. His hands were shaking so badly he misdialed twice before he got it right; he hit the call button and jammed the phone to his ear, taking in his surroundings.
It was half past three, and MacTavish’s room was simultaneously too cold and too hot; Edinburgh, perpetually rainy, was visible through his half open curtains. His heart was in his throat as he listened to his phone trilling, the sheets twisted around his legs and chest as it rose and fell; all at once, he felt unable to stay in one spot, and kicked his way out of bed, ripping open his curtains to look at his empty street. The image of red blood sticking together pale blond eyelashes felt like it was burned into his eyelids, but the wet tarmac reflected the fluorescent streetlights, the puddle that formed in the camber of the road catching the light when it rippled. He raked another hand through his hair, forcing his breathing to slow as he counted back from ten; feeling the condensation on his forehead as he rested it against the window, he shut his eyes.
Ten, nine, eight.
The streetlights had a halo through his window, a spectrum with a golden centre; he swallowed before he looked down at his phone, turning his back to the glass.
Seven, six, five.
The nightmares didn’t get easier; he knew all the sleep hygiene skills they taught them, knew all the ways to bring himself down, and it was just a matter of remembering where he was.
Four, three, two.
He caught his eye in the mirror, half illuminated bt the phone and eerie in the dark. It was still trilling, the number not connected; finally, he sighed, walking back around his bed.
But it wasn’t real— that was what he had to remind himself of, over and over. Calling Ghost was an unreasonable response, he reminded himself, pulling his phone from his ear and watching the tiny animation of the phone on his screen; he’d have to message him to tell him it was a mistake, that he had misdialed, and his thumb hesitated over the disconnect button.
One.
It was okay. He was okay. Ghost was—
The phone line connected.
“Captain?”
MacTavish hurled the phone across the room.
It spun in the air, knocked over a pile of clean laundry he hadn’t bothered to fold, and thunked so hard into the wall that in any other circumstance, MacTavish might have been concerned about waking his neighbours. He watched it tumble to the floor and under his bed, where the light continued to illuminate the cobwebs he’d never bothered to vacuum. Staring at the light, he stood, stock-still, uncharacteristically unsure of what to do in the situation.
He could hear Ghost’s tinny voice over the phone, and blinked, before finally, he seemed to spring to action— crossing the room, he dropped to his knees, feeling blindly for his phone until he got his fist around it, knuckles dragging against the underside of his bed as he pulled it out, lifting it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?” Ghost demanded, almost sounding angry— “what the fuck was that? Are you solid?”
The jump between Ghost bleeding out in his arms and spitting venomously down a phone at him a few moments later was a little jarring; he blinked several times, mouth opening and closing as he seemed to scramble for words. His nightshirt was sticking to his chest— for a second, he considered hanging up, before he realised he didn’t want Ghost to stop speaking to him.
“I—…”
“It’s a secure line, sir,” Ghost told him, breath catching in his mic, “you solid?”
He was fine; even if he was holding his phone in a vice grip and his breathing was barely even, he was physically fine, but Ghost’s voice was like an anchor, and he shut his eyes, willing himself to speak.
“‘M solid, Ghost.”
A lie, and if the moment of quiet that followed him saying that was any indicator, Ghost knew it too; at the very least, he didn’t immediately call him out on him, and he heard the soft sound of an exhale.
“If you need me—” Ghost began, before pausing. There was the shift of fabric; his voice was rough with tiredness but earnest, and waited.
“Say the word,” he promised, “and I’ll be there.”
“I didn’t think you knew where I was, Riley,” he replied, unable to help the huff of laughter— he couldn’t see him, but could practically imagine his eyes narrowing.
“Edinburgh, isn’t it?”
“It’s a big city.”
“Not big enough,” he challenged, the same tone he used when they were tracking down a target; something the image of Ghost barrelling his way down the street in all his gear looking for him was unfairly amusing, and despite himself, he wiped his hand over his beard again, stepping forward to his door.
“Take it you’re not deployed?”
“Stirling Lines,” Ghost said by way of reply. “Almost makes me wish I was.”
“That bad?”
“The plumbing on half the bathrooms on the first floor got backed up,” Ghost replied, and he heard him shift in his bed, the blankets catching in the mic. “Chemo swears up and down it wasn’t him, but you know. Smells worse than Paraguay.”
“I doubt that,” MacTavish replied; he could practically hear Ghost’s indignation down the phone, and he walked around to the pile of laundry, snatching it from the floor.
“I’m serious, sir, I had to help Anderson move all his things from his office temporarily. They couldn’t get into your office so they put him in one of those basement rooms, the ones everyone say’re haunted.”
“Was one ghost down there, at least,” MacTavish replied seriously— he practically imagined the way Ghost’s eyebrows would furrow, before he finally caught on, and—
“That was awful.”
“You say that, Riley, but I can hear you smiling.”
“You can’t hear shit,” he shot back stubbornly; MacTavish shook his head, huffing a laugh.
“You helped him move?” He asked, jamming the phone between his shoulder to fold up a T-shirt as he looked around again. Ghost’s voice, in his bedroom, wasn’t particularly familiar, but he fit in well there— Ghost hummed the affirmative, as he dropped the folded shirt on his bureau.
“Wasn’t much. Had some pictures of his kids. He’s not so bad.”
“Didn’t realise you two got along so well,” he frowned; he didn’t like Anderson that much, but Ghost huffed a laugh, light and soft in the night.
“You getting jealous, sir?” Ghost asked, teasing— MacTavish spluttered, dropping the shirt to indignantly switch his phone to the other side. “You’re not the only captain I can get along with.”
“I’ll hang up. I’ll hang up right now.”
“No, you won’t,” Ghost replied, voice light and lilting. MacTavish couldn’t find it in himself to disagree, and huffed a little disbelievingly, snatching up the other shirt and dropping it on the bureau atop the first. He walked over to the main room of his apartment, glancing out the windows that gave him a better view of the city; rain was still falling in sheets, catching in the streetlights, and distantly, he heard a distant engine whining.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” Ghost replied, yawning— “well— yeah, actually. Don’t mind.”
“You barely sleep as is,” MacTavish replied, eyebrows furrowing; Ghost hummed again, like it wasn’t a concern of his.
“What’s a few less hours? B’sides, falling asleep isn’t the problem anymore. Worked it out.”
“That so?” MacTavish replied, a little disbelieving. The kitchen was still full of the leftovers of the takeout he had had for dinner; the plastic bags dumped unceremoniously in the bin.
“Think it’s my blankets. Took yours a few nights ago, I’m sleeping fine.”
“You stole my blankets? What, did you break into my room?” MacTavish asked, incredulous— he’d left the windows slightly open so it was cold enough to sleep, and walked over to close it.
“No, I didn’t,” Ghost snapped back, as if the suggestion he would break in to steal something was so outlandish— “you leave it in your office, anyway.”
“I thought you said they put Anderson in the basement because they couldn’t get into my office?”
The silence, on the other side, was telling.
“I might’ve broke into your office,” Ghost admitted, and he could hear the sound of him scratching at his jaw. “I’ll wash the blanket before I give it back.”
“Don’t worry about it. Did you break the lock?”
“Do I look like a bloody amateur to you?”
“Course not,” MacTavish replied, unable to help the fondness in his voice— at that moment, though, there was a thunk from his bathroom.
“What was that?”
“Hold on a sec,” MacTavish instructed him; Ghost fell quiet, as he crept towards the half open door of his bathroom. He’d never found his apartment small; it was the first and only property he’d ever bought, and the bathroom was off to one side. Creeping carefully towards it, he looked inside, catching sight of pale green tiles, his toothbrush cup knocked over and in the sink, the shower curtain angled awkwardly, and—
“For fuck’s sake— you little bastard—”
For the second time that night, MacTavish was shocked out of his skin, although this time, by a flash of orange who jumped out of the bathtub, yowling very loudly about being interrupted sneaking around. Heart thundering in his chest, MacTavish flicked the light on, earning more hissing as the fluorescent white stung both their eyes—
“Sir?”
“Wee bastard, hidin’ in my fuckin’ bathroom, knockin’ over my shit—, gommy fuckin’ shite,” he added, for good measure, when the cat hopped up on the edge of his bathtub and knocked over his shampoo, looking directly at him while he did it. She had thick, ginger fur that made her look even fatter than she was, green eyes that were narrowed into ovals in the light, and wore a permanent scowl, streaked with stripes.
“Do I want to know?” Ghost asked, the confusion practically radiating off of him; MacTavish sighed, long suffering, as he wiped a hand over his head.
“This Lady,” he began, spitting out the name his landlady had announced with such enthusiasm as he replaced his toothbrush cup, “she’s apparently been livin’ in my apartment because I’ve been spendin’ so long away, and now she’s pissed off that I’m here, living in my own apartment, and she won’t go away. She keeps knocking shit over to piss me off, little ginger prick that she is.”
The silence that followed that was long enough that MacTavish had time to walk all the way back to the kitchen, rip open the leftover chicken tikka he had left on the counter and dump out the pieces of chicken into the old saucer he kept Lady’s food on, because he’d be damned if he let her eat off his plate— he even had enough time to scratch her behind the ears, where she let him, happy to have been fed.
“Ghost? You still there?”
“There’s a girl living in your apartment,” Ghost began, slowly, like he was trying to work out something very difficult, “who’s been hiding in your bathroom, knocking over your things. That you called a— what was that, a gommy shit?”
“What? No— not a girl, Ghost,” MacTavish shot back, passing his phone to his other ear— “she’s a cat! Her name’s Lady!”
“Oh. Oh!” Ghost practically laughed out loud— “Jesus Christ, sir, alright.”
“You think I chase around the girls in my apartment and call ‘em little ginger pricks?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you, sir,” Ghost replied, grinning audibly, “more surprised you have any girls over there at all.”
“It’s just her,” MacTavish grumbled by way of response, “won’t stop screamin’ until I give her whatever’s left of my take out. And she won’t leave once I do!”
He dumped the packaging of his dinner into the bin before readjusting himself to sit on one knee, running his fingertips through her fur. The phantom feeling of blood wasn’t sticking under his nails anymore, and he could feel the heat radiating off her.
“Have you considered she’s not leaving because you keep feeding her?” Ghost asked; MacTavish paused when he’d been petting along her spine.
“Huh.”
“Mhm,” Ghost agreed with himself, a little too pleased with himself; MacTavish rolled his eyes, almost too content between the two of them.
“You’d like her. Lady. She’s got a lot of fur.”
“I’ll have to drop by next time I’m in Edinburgh,” Ghost laughed, shifting in his bed, the blankets catching in the mic, “say hello.”
“I’ll be waitin’ for you.”
Ghost huffed around a laugh, humming something indistinct; looking out the window at the street again, he listened as Ghost stifled another yawn.
“How’s your family?” He asked, after a few moments, voice a little further away.
“Loud as I remember. All four of my sisters, their husband and kids, my ma and my grandma’re stayin’ over at my ma’s. There’s about twenty of ‘em.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost replied sympathetically. “Think I’d go mad.”
“I was. Escaped by the skin of my teeth, now I’m here.”
“S’pose it’s better to be losing sleep in your own apartment,” he agreed sleepily, as Lady, happy with what she had eaten, flopped over to let him keep petting her. The rain peppered the windows, little droplets that caught the streetlight, and the sliver of light from the door of his bathroom illuminated his living room, catching the soft blanket he had thrown over his sofa. Briefly, he thought back to the start of the nightmare, the bedroom that was his as much as it wasn’t, familiar even though it didn’t exist— he realised Ghost hadn’t said anything for several moments, and double checked the screen of his phone to make sure it hadn’t disconnected by mistake.
“Riley? You fallin’ asleep, lad?”
“Mm, no. ‘M wide awake,” Ghost mumbled; the echo from the dream might have given him more pause, but it was paired with another sound of fabric, like he was turning over in his sheets, and Lady was purring as she basked in the attention.
“I’ll hang up. You can sleep.”
“No, no,” Ghost replied, “I’m listening, ‘m still awake. Tell me about,” he paused, like he was casting about for a subject, “tell me about Lady. What does she look like?”
He really did get the impression Ghost wanted to stay awake just because he was; and there was something just so saccharine about the whole image, about his apartment in the middle of Edinburgh, and the rain pouring down, and a purring cat who didn’t really belong to him and Simon— Simon, who had answered a call in the middle of the night because it had been him, Simon, who could and would track him down and find him if only he asked, Simon who was only awake to extend how long they spent talking to one another.
“John?”
“I’m still here, I’m still here.”
“Haven’t even told me what a gommy shit is. What t’ fuck’s a gommy?” Ghost grumbled, scowl so clear in his mind’s eye he could practically imagine him there with him. With a soft huff, MacTavish leant back against the wall, as Lady sat up to walk closer, flopping into his lap; he ran a hand through her fur, glancing at the rain through the window, taking in the scent of petrichor as it seeped through the window.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one feedin’ her, spoiled thing, and she’s chunky enough to show for it. And she’s so bleedin’ ginger she’s orange, leaves her fur everywhere…”