Work Text:
“It’s only me!” MacTavish called, kicking off his trainers by the door.
He heard a murmur of what he assumed to be a greeting from the back of the house.
“You left the front door wide open again,” he observed.
Another incomprehensible noise drifted down the hall. He sighed, and pulled the door shut behind him.
He picked up the mail that had been tossed through the open door onto the mat and began to rifle through it. “There’s a fox been sniffing around.” he called back, “I don’t want it getting in.” He glanced up to see if any response came from down the hall, but none came. He scowled at the empty space in irritation. “Well don’t blame me if it runs off with your knickers!” He paused at a glazier’s flyer in the middle of the pile, and pulled it out. “I’ve seen it watching me putting the laundry out. It’s got a perverted look in its eye.”
He flicked the flyer over in his hand, eyed the figure highlighted, and began to amble down the hall.
“Here. What do you think about- for God’s sake, Simon! What are you up to now?”
Clad in only his socks and underpants, Ghost lay sprawled atop the dining room table, propped up on his elbows and sighting down the scope of a sniper rifle.
“That bastard that sits outside our bedroom window at stupid o’clock in the morning was flapping about earlier.” Ghost replied, without looking up. “You know the one: sounds like dialling Satan’s personal fax machine?”
MacTavish sighed. “Oh, God! Not this again!”
“It flew off, but then I saw this badger limping across the grass. Didn’t look very well, a bit foamy around the mouth, so I thought that seeing as I’d already pulled this out, I’d do the world a good deed and put it out of its misery. Been trying to get a good shot for the last hour but it keeps lurching off into the bushes at just the wrong moment.”
“You can’t just go around taking pot shots at any passing wildlife you’ve taken an objection too! Those badgers are a protected species!” MacTavish paused, and frowned, uncertain, “I think…” He thought about this for a moment, then remembered himself and gestured exasperatedly “Phone the RSPCA and get them on it.”
Ghost glanced up and fixed MacTavish with a steely glare. “Hardly think them setting up a bunch of traps just to drag it up to the vet’s to die by lethal injection is a less stressful option for it than me putting a bullet between its eyes. If they can catch it at all.”
MacTavish scowled, unable to fault his logic and not liking it. “You’ve got far too much time on your hands!” he snapped, as he slung his bag from his shoulder onto the sofa. “Did you check in with the jobcentre? You promised you would.”
“Yes.” Ghost sighed, and returned to squinting down the sight. He panned the rifle across the open window in front of him, searching the back lawn for signs of life “Come on!” he muttered "Where are you? I’ve got a ticket to badger heaven here with your name on it.”
“Any joy?”
Ghost didn’t look up. “She said they were looking for a play worker at the after school club at Whitestone Primary”
MacTavish paused, “And what did you say?”
“I said I’d consider it.”
“Really?”
“When the devil puts his mittens on to build a snowman. I’d rather saw my own leg off with a kiwi spoon.” He looked round, over his shoulder at MacTavish, “What’s the rush? I mean, it’s not like we’re short of money.”
“You said you didn’t want to be a kept man!” MacTavish retorted. “Besides, at least a job would get you out of the house.”
“I do get out of the house!” said Ghost, indignantly “I went for a run all the way down to Norton Canon and back this morning and I went to the shops.” He returned to sighting down the scope again. “You talk like I’m turning into some mad, eccentric recluse.”
MacTavish watched him scratch the seat of his pants, grunt and shuffle across the table top into a better firing position. He rolled his eyes, turned away to head into the kitchen and stopped, appalled in the doorway.
“What the hell happened here?” he demanded.
The room was in chaos: cupboard contents eviscerated and scattered on the worktops, the doors left hanging open. Every drawer had been pulled out and ransacked.
“Oh.” said Ghost, “I was looking for the Coco Pops earlier. I was just putting it all back when I saw that twat on the birdfeeder.”
MacTavish growled in exasperation. “At least I know why people called you Ghost . Leave this place looking like a poltergeist attacked it!” He picked up the packet of Coco Pops and shook it: it was empty. “Bloody great wean!” he muttered. He squashed the box flat and was about to stuff it into the recycling bin when he spotted the contents of the sink. “Did you do any washing up?”
A very peevish sigh emanated from the direction of the dining room “We’re only reheating the lasagne.” Ghost protested. “Hardly worth the water bill to keep washing plates all day when it can all go in the dishwasher in one fell swoop after dinner. I’ll do it then.”
MacTavish gritted his teeth. Ghost would do the washing up after dinner, he always did, but it didn’t make looking at the trail of destruction he’d left behind any easier. He swept an empty Crunchie wrapper aside and began to re-site the discarded cupboard contents in their rightful places.
“And, for God’s sake!” he snapped, as he spotted the open oven “Either get round to fixing this door or calling someone who can!”
He slammed it shut and angrily twisted the knob to turn it on.
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
MacTavish snorted indignantly, biting back the snarled barb that rose in his throat. He was hot, tired and hungry after a long day. He knew the next bump in the road would tip him over the edge completely.
“Oh.” said Ghost, “I did pick up some of that nice beaujolais you like when I went into Waitrose. It’s on the sideboard airing out. And the salad’s made up. I put it in the fridge.”
MacTavish sighed, the hot flames of irritated fury sputtering out. For all his weird quirks, MacTavish knew that Ghost meant well, and he did, when all was said and done, pull his weight. He could never stay angry at him for long. He picked up a packet of lentils resignedly and put them back on the shelf.
“Gaz said he would come by tomorrow.” MacTavish called through. “You could ask him to help if you think it’ll need another pair of hands.”
“I thought he was clubbing on some Greek island?”
“Aye.” MacTavish paused at a can of peaches and glanced at the use-by date. He frowned, put it to one side, and began to check the others. “He got back yesterday. Said he brought us something.”
“Chlamydia, probably, the way he puts it about out there.” he heard Ghost mutter.
“Most likely just another bottle of that nasty ouzo, same as last year.”
A murmur of agreement wafted through from the dining room “Don’t pour it out on the lawn this time.” Ghost said “It’s still bald since you tried to get rid of the last lot. Scorched earth. It’s less of a drink than an aniseed-flavoured war crime. Anyway, I thought you were at work tomorrow?”
“Just in the morning, but I said you’ll be in all day.”
He heard Ghost sigh. “I’ll try not to expire from excitement overnight.”
“You could just get yourself an Instagram account, you know.” said MacTavish, hopefully. He closed the last drawer and made his way back through to the dining room. Ghost lay exactly where he had left him, carefully scanning the grass for movement. “Join the rest of us in the twenty-first century,” he continued. “That way you could like the stuff as he posts it instead of him having to come round and scroll through it for you.”
“The only social media I’m going on is the crematorium’s when they put up notice of my funeral!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said MacTavish. He regarded Ghost splayed on the table thoughtfully, from his tousled ginger hair to his novelty skull-patterned socks, a surge of affection rising within him. He stood for a moment, admiring the way the muscles of his broad shoulders bunched as he shifted position, the long, sloping arch of his back tapering down to his waist and the plump curve of his bottom beneath. “Seems a shame to keep all this to myself” he observed and reached across to slap his hand, hard, across Ghost’s unsuspecting backside.
Ghost leapt up like a startled cat, the rifle clattering sideways across the table.
“Jesus , Johnny! You’ll have me fucking killing someone!”
“Ach!” MacTavish snorted dismissively, “Keeps your trigger discipline sharp!”
Grinning up at Ghost’s shocked expression, he gave him a lascivious wink as he slid his hand along his bare leg, enjoying the brush of downy hair beneath his fingers, until he enveloped the firm muscle of his calf in his grip and began to knead it in an appraising fashion.
Ghost glared at him and then he sighed, his face softening. He rolled over and pushed himself to the edge of the table, his legs either side of MacTavish’s hips, gripping him tightly between his powerful thighs, grinding their bodies together
“You’re a bad influence, you know that, Johnny?” he said, and kissed him.
Just over an hour later, a fresh, just-washed MacTavish sauntered, whistling, from the shower.
“Johnny?”
He paused in the act of towelling himself off.
“What?” he called.
Ghost’s voice drifted up the stairs “Do you think that lasagne’s still all right?”
MacTavish frowned at the empty doorway “I only made it Tuesday, why?”
“Smells ghastly in here. When did you put it in the oven?”
MacTavish’s frown deepened, then he cursed under his breath. When Ghost had kissed him, and then one thing had inevitably led to another, he’d forgotten all about it.
“I didn’t.” he called back, then paused. Wait. What? A thought occurred to him “Did you remember to take out the potatoes when you cleaned up after tea last night?”
He waited for a response, but none came. He sighed. “Well,” he muttered, “That silence is very reassuring.”
He finished drying his hair, and inspected the soft fuzz either side of his mohawk. It would do for another couple of days, he decided, fluffing up the rest of it until he was satisfied. He had pulled on a clean set of shorts and t-shirt and was about to start searching for a pair of matching socks when he heard the slow, measured tread of Ghost coming up the stairs. Moments later he loomed in the doorway.
“Johnny?”
His unexpectedly apprehensive tone made MacTavish look up. “What’s the matter?”
Ghost stared at him, face pale, eyes wide.
“Johnny, did- did you put a badger in our oven?”
MacTavish stopped, rewound what he’d just heard and tried to make it make sense. It didn’t.
“What?”
Ghost pointed down the stairs “On the second shelf, in the roasting tin with the leftover potatoes.”
“What ? A dead one?”
“Well, it’s not waiting for Ratty and Mole to go boating on the river!” Ghost snapped “It’s cooked right through!”
MacTavish leapt up, and with Ghost trailing behind him, they barrelled down the stairs.
In the kitchen the rank air, heavy with thick, smokey grease and the acrid stench of burnt hair, assaulted his nose. Ghost gestured at the open oven door.
MacTavish stared in horror, mouth agape, at the mass of charred fur. “Creeping bloody Jesus!”
He spun round to glare at Ghost “If I’ve told you once, Simon, I’ve told you a hundred times not to go about leaving doors open!” He snapped “I knew something like this would happen!”
He looked away, his stomach heaving. “I think I feel sick.” He choked the feeling down and steeled himself to peer hesitantly through the heat. “Are you… are you sure it’s dead?”
“Well, I think it’s a pretty safe bet!” Ghost shot back “Its ears are crispy!” He grabbed the oven gloves from the counter.
MacTavish stared at him, aghast “Are you taking it out?”
“Well I’m not going to leave it in there so it can judge me every time I reheat leftover pizza for breakfast!”
Ghost grabbed the edge of the oven shelf and yanked it clear. Kicking the door shut, he deposited the whole shelf, and the smoking roasting tin, on the table. He shuddered in the face of the worsening stench of burnt fur, flapping the smoke from his eyes with his still-gloved hands. He grabbed a fish slice and poked at the blackened mass.
“Look!” he gestured, “It’s that sick one I was telling you about. There. That leg was all gammy already. I told you it was going to crawl somewhere to die.”
MacTavish shuddered “Aye! And it’s crawled into our oven, thanks to you! Jesus! The poor wee thing!” He slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and put his face in his hands. “And that was my Mum’s good roasting tin!” He groaned “Well! That’s just the perfect end to a perfect day!”
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” said Ghost.
“No.” He sighed and reached across his chest to take Ghost’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb across the smooth metal band of his wedding ring. “I should have checked it was empty before I shut the door.”
He felt Ghost’s breath brush through his hair, the soft press of his lips against the stubble of shorn scalp and then the weight of his chin as he rested it atop his head.
“I’ll phone someone about that door after I’ve cleaned it out tomorrow, I promise.”
They stared at the smouldering badger on the table between them.
“If it’s any consolation,” said Ghost “It must have been pretty far gone. Look, it’s hardly touched those potatoes.” He slid his other hand around MacTavish in a cautious, apologetic embrace “I did check before I got the gun out. If they’re out during the day, it’s not good news. I think it was probably dead by the time you shut the door.”
MacTavish sighed. “God! I’ve gone right off that lasagne now.”
“I know. I’ll phone for a Chinese.” said Ghost. “My treat.” He paused, looked down at the still smoking badger and sighed “I guess the crispy roast special’s right out?”