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The first thing they taught in urban warfare was knowing exactly what and where you were getting into. Satellite imagery, blueprints, and recom were the absolute basics; Ghost couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a building without knowing every way out of it.
This, of course, was somewhat hampered by the fact that Captain MacTavish kept plenty of secrets.
It came with the territory. They were in counterrorism in the SAS, and loose talk cost lives— all the same, it took Ghost a grand total of four weeks to see him smile after meeting him, on a mission in the middle of Siberia, and with the benefit of hindsight he was almost sure it was a pained grimace.
All that to say, Ghost didn’t know exactly what he had been expecting when he had followed him back to Edinburgh.
He’d gone for a run on the second morning there, unwilling and unable to stay cooped up for too long; the track he’d found took him around residential streets that surrounded his flat, passed terraced houses and tenement buildings that weren’t quite rundown, but careworn with all the signs of life. It was rather like going through an alien landscape the first few times, Ghost being so used to cities and towns blown to carcasses by the time he got there— but there were cats scowling in windows, abandoned bicycles in dandelion filled gardens, and one particular house Ghost liked to use as a waypoint that had a garden entirely filled with garden gnomes of all shapes and sizes. The hospital, as MacTavish had told him, was nearby, all tall orange bricks and bright, dazzling windows so early in the mornings— he used it to circle back, finishing his route towards the flat.
More than that, though, what Ghost hadn’t expected was where MacTavish lived.
It was a tenement building, and looked more suited to an old lady’s home than anything— in fact, Ghost was almost sure all of MacTavish’s neighbours were old women, and he knew it because the woman next door— Deborah, he had guessed between the thick Scottish accent, was profoundly deaf— waved at him every morning while she watered the plants in her window. The building itself had sandy golden bricks, windworn and crumbling around the edges, white window frames that reflected the morning sun, and his flat was the first one to the immediate right on the first floor, built with bay windows and perpetually cold.
The door had three locks, and the living room had clearly been decorated years before; Ghost was supposed to be sleeping the rickety sofa bed MacTavish had set up for him, complete with several squashy pillows and a throw blanket. That, however, brought him neatly to what was so far his favourite part of living with MacTavish, which was—
“G’morning, Lady,” Ghost mumbled, as he heard the familiar sound of jumping up on the table. Lady was easily the fattest cat Ghost had ever had the pleasure of coming across, with thick orange fur, white socks, and bright, clever green eyes. Ghost had been very amused to find that aside from a massive pack of what seemed to be very expensive cat food, he had nothing else for her in the entire flat, as if keeping her had been an off-the-cuff choice; this early in the morning, her pupils were narrowed into eggs, her eyes closing happily as he gave her an appreciative scratch behind the ears.
With a yawn, Ghost sat up from where he had been sitting with his head in his arms on the dining table, spine popping with several clicks— he groaned, yawning and scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie as he ruffled Lady’s fur all the wrong way to smooth it back down the other way. The light shone white through the windows from where Ghost hadn’t pulled the blinds down fully; MacTavish’s kitchen, despite being devoid of food, was full of all sorts of mismatched cups and plates, and had pale brown tiles to match what looked suspiciously like a coffee stain that hadn’t been cleaned properly on the ceiling.
He knew bits and pieces, short stories and the occasional throwaway comments that he gave away when Ghost needed it— but as a person, MacTavish wasn’t exactly forthcoming. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sincere; out of everyone Ghost had ever known, no one had ever been as sincere or as earnest as MacTavish.
But loved ones, families, homes unbroken by war were a privilege. Ghost couldn’t fault that he hadn’t explained anything short of telling him where the bathroom and bedrooms were, not why there was a whole second bedroom full of boxes, or how exactly he’d ended up getting a flat surrounded by charming old ladies and apparent gnome enthusiasts, or why, despite seeming like somewhere a family might live, the only thing to suggest as much was one framed picture on the very edge of an otherwise empty mantelpiece. Ghost had glanced at it, a family of seven at a birthday party, presumably for the youngest girl dressed in pink— Alice, Ghost had guessed, given that the boy next to her seemed closest to her in age, scowling grumpily at the rich cake ahead of her. Two parents, four daughters, one son— more laughter in one picture than Ghost could ever recall having had with his family in his life.
Ghost knew secrets, so he let MacTavish keep them. He didn’t need to know every little detail, didn’t need to know how he ended up with a decorative plate from Iceland or what was up with all the pillows in his house and on his sofa or if that was his cup, a lumpy thing made of clay in the back of the cupboard that had been painstakingly been painted years before and was chipping at the edges.
It didn’t stop Ghost from wanting to crack into his life like he might do a ribcage, hands open to catch a beating heart.
“Mm— morning,” MacTavish yawned as he entered, hair unruly and shirt rucked up from where he had been sleeping; Ghost scratched under Lady’s chin as he dipped his head by way of reply, standing up and wandering over to flick on the kettle. MacTavish pulled the cupboard open to fish out two cups— Bristol Beach, complete with a sun wearing sunglasses, and a pink one with flowers that had been washed until the petals were nearly invisible—
“Simon.”
“Mh?” Ghost asked, turning where he had been leaning to lift the blinds as the kettle began to bubble. Sleep softened the way MacTavish’s eyebrows were always knitted, and slightly endearingly, his hair stuck up upright where he had been sleeping on his side— he tilted his head to meet Ghost’s eye, eyes narrowing.
“Did you sleep on the dining table?”
“What?”
“Your forehead’s all red,” MacTavish replied, frowning as he prodded at it. Ghost batted him away, reaching across him to the box of teabags— a brand Ghost had never heard of, and one that almost made PG tips taste good— as he rubbed at his forehead self consciously.
“So what?” He scowled, looking up at him. MacTavish lifted an eyebrow.
“What’s wrong with the sofa bed?”
“There’s not enough pillows.”
“Bloody comedian, you are. Really, what’s wrong with it?”
“…Nothing,” Ghost replied— and when he didn’t look convinced: “nothing! It’s good.”
“Really?” MacTavish asked, dragging over the sugar. Lady chose that moment to saunter over, walking past the boiling kettle, directly into—
“I’m putting her in the bedroom,” Ghost said decisively, scooping her off the cup as MacTavish caught the cup in the nick of time. It was the flower mug, and MacTavish replaced it on the counter safely away from the edge with an exasperated glare over at her, not quite hiding the glimmer of amusement.
“Wanker,” Ghost added to Lady, in case the message wasn’t clear— she looked at him reproachfully, before looking away, content to let herself be taxied to MacTavish’s bedroom with her legs in the air. The amused chuff of air it earned from MacTavish almost seemed worth it; he dropped Lady off in his bedroom, circling back to brush his teeth, and when he came back, he put a pan on the stove to fry eggs.
“Simon,” MacTavish began, several minutes later, as Ghost scraped the egg MacTavish had tried to fry from the pan— “sleep in a bed, alright?”
It was said with a light tone, nearly joking; something about the fact he had noticed, though, or the fact he’d cared to say anything at all had Ghost nodding like it was an order.
The next thing in the field manual was stealth movement. There was nearly an art to it, the way they didn’t touch anything they didn’t have to, didn’t knock over a thing, silent footsteps and clandestine operations—
All of it fell away when Ghost came across an old, very dusty teddy bear tucked behind boxes and left to collect dust in the living room. Hidden in the cupboard by his bed, out of sight where Ghost had finally gotten sick of being a polite houseguest and decided to investigate. The cupboard stored all sorts, an old wooden thing that squeaked when he opened it and hid several different things, school books and trinkets— the bear had floppy ears and fur that had been matted where it had been held around the wrist, and was complete with a little baby blue bow around the neck. Ghost ran hus fingertips over where it had been repaired, an ear stitched back on and split seams done back up; unable to help himself, he held onto it as he wandered into the kitchen, socked feet quiet over tile as he approached MacTavish. He was facing the stove, engrossed in his activity, and Ghost took the opportunity to press a cold hand to the back of his neck—
“Fucking—,” MacTavish spluttered incredulously, practically jumping out of his skin— he wheeled around, scowling at Ghost’s shit-eating grin— “what’re you bleedin’ sneakin’ up on me for, you spooky bloody weapon!”
“It’s not my fault you make it so easy for me,” Ghost shot back, grinning wider.
“Should put a bell on you,” MacTavish muttered, turning back to the stove.
They were back in the kitchen, later past lunch; there was a pot of bubbling tomato soup between them, MacTavish’s apparent attempt to prove to both of them he wasn’t as useless in the kitchen as the burnt egg in the morning suggested. The sun was orange in the sky, burning low and uncharacteristically warm for September— it made the countertops glow, strewn with vegetable peels and a cutting board. MacTavish picked up a tablespoon lying around to scoop up a careful spoonful of the soup, blowing on it to cool it—
“Open your mouth.”
“Christ, sir, buy a lad dinner first.”
“I’m makin’ you dinner,” MacTavish corrected grumpily, holding a hand under his chin as he fed him it. “What is it, is the salt okay?”
If he was honest, Ghost couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked from him; it warmed him from the inside out, light and velvety and slightly peppery just the way he liked—
“S’pose you’re not completely useless in the kitchen,” he said instead, licking it off the spoon.
“Practically a gold star from you,” MacTavish groused, but seemed satisfied all the same, holding it there for him. “What is it?”
“What?”
“You’ve not come in here to check how salty the soup is. You’ve got that look in your eye that means you want to piss me off.”
“I’ve got no clue what you’re on about. I just found something,” Ghost replied, feigning innocence. MacTavish blinked, and his expression hardened, eyes immediately narrowing.
“Have you been snooping?”
“It was in the cupboard in the living room right by my bed. You know, with all the VHS tapes?”
“It?”
To his very pleasant surprise, MacTavish flushed from the ears down; his ears turned as red as the soup still bubbling. His mouth opened incredulously, and the flush travelled all the way down his cheeks and to the back of his neck before his brain seemed to catch up with the rest of him and—
“Stay out of my things, Riley,” he scowled, shoving it back towards him.
“See, until you said that, I didn’t know it was yours.”
“He’s not.”
“He?” Ghost asked— MacTavish rolled his eyes, chewing his tongue between his molars before he shoved gently past him to get to the sink. Ghost chased after, sidling up right by him—
“Come on— come on, don’t be like that, sir. What’s his name?”
“He’s not got a name,” MacTavish grumbled, but the flush only darkened in a way that was more telling than anything— “you’ll take the piss.”
“Captain, I’ve never taken the piss out of anything in my life.”
The glower MacTavish levelled against him was outright murderous.
“You couldn’t torture it out of me, Ghost. Stop looking through my shit.”
It was a joke— he knew it was a joke, because MacTavish was still looking at him with that look in his eyes, because rationally, of course it was— so Ghost really had no excuse for all the humour disappearing all at once, suddenly very aware of where he was standing between him and the counter. He blinked, swallowed where his mouth had suddenly gone dry, and when it looked like MacTavish was about to say something, quickly turned to help cleaning up.
“How long’s it s’posed to be on the stove?”
“Hour or so,” MacTavish replied, after a moment, before the tap switched on.
Ghost ended up cleaning up the kitchen; it wasn’t an apology, obviously, because there was nothing to apologise about. It didn’t stop him from cleaning all the surfaces, washing everything in the sink, methodically removing all evidence that they were there. The bear, unnamed, went back in the cupboard, tucked in the back where Ghost had found him; they didn’t say anything else about it, sat in front of the TV with matching bowls of soup and Lady purring between them.
Civilians were one of the most crucial elements to consider in urban warfare. Everything changed around civilians; the fight, the weapons, right down to the language they spoke in to try and alarm them the least.
The only reason Ghost heard it at all was because he wasn’t asleep. The sofa bed dug into his back, even where Soap had gone to every effort to make it comfortable for him. Aside from the blanket, there were plenty of pillows, and Lady hadn’t even laid stake to any of them yet, so he had all the space he could have wanted. He was in bed, as promised, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out whether it was worth sleeping, when, from the wall closest to the neighbours, he heard a dull thunk.
It wasn’t quite heavy enough to be a body: Ghost was far too well acquainted with what bodies falling sounded like, but it was certainly heavy enough to cause damage, and impossible to have been an accident.
Ghost’s mind immediately went to an intruder. The neighbours were all old women, presumably unable to help themselves— the first floor was an easy enough climb up, and even if MacTavish’s door had three locks, that didn’t mean anyone else’s did. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Ghost slunk out of bed, tugging on his boots. He briefly considered getting a knife from the kitchen, but decided against it— he’d faced off guns barehanded and come out without a scratch.
The hallway in his flat was quiet, carpet softening footfalls; he let the lock latch behind him, shoving the spare key in his pocket.
It was only a few steps down, but Ghost kept his footsteps silent— he approached the door, truthfully unsure of how he’d go about it, all his training having him honed in on every shuffled footstep behind the door—
However, just as he approached it, it swung open all by itself. A woman with curling grey hair and huge glasses opened the door, clutching—
“Get out o’ here, you mangy cat! And if I even catch a whiff of you around my thyme again—”
To Ghost’s surprise, Lady leapt out of the woman’s— Deborah’s— arms and immediately scampered off, a flash of orange disappearing down the stairs in all of ten seconds; it left Ghost staring at the neighbour, all at once concious of the fact he was in his pyjamas.
“Who’re you?” She asked, breaking the silence first.
“Uh— Simon,” Ghost decided on, “I live next door. With John?”
“Oh, aye?” She asked, living a curious eyebrow. “What d’you want from me this hour, Simon?”
“I—,” Ghost began, suddenly very aware of the way she was glaring at the scars on his cheeks— suddenly a little self conscious, he traced a hand over the edge of his lips, “I heard something fall. Are you— alright?”
“What? Move your hand, love, I can’t hear you if I can’t see your lips.”
“Oh,” Ghost replied, dropping it— and then, understanding— “oh, right— sorry— I heard something fall?”
“Would ye believe it,” she began immediately, apparently uncaring of how loud she was being in the dead of night, “my cat, Penelope, decides in the middle of the night to knock over my best thyme bush off the counter— shatterin’, mind,” she adds vehemently, “shatterin’ my ceramic, and now there’s dirt and dust all over my kitchen, and worse than that, my thyme’s roots are about to dry out— and come inside, would you, stop hoverin’ like a bat, it’s givin’ me the creeps. Honestly,” she added, like it was Ghost’s fault. “Well— come on!”
“I’m sorry,” Ghost apologised, absolutely confused as he followed her increasingly exasperated beckoning, “did you call that cat Penelope?”
“That’s her name,” she sniffed, “but I get the terrible feeling someone else is feedin’ her. Wide as a sailboat, she is, but I know I’m only feedin’ her the best.”
With a slightly amused huff, Ghost noticed the exact same brand of expensive cat food MacTavish kept tucked in the corner of her kitchen as he followed her in; wisely, he decided not to mention it to her.
The process that led to it wasn’t exactly clear, but Ghost ended up in her kitchen, cleaning up the thyme bush and its broken pot from the floor. Deborah’s flat managed to look older than MacTavish’s, all tassels and fading velvet covers. Her kitchen was small and full of cooking books, boards, cutlery, a souvenir spoon rack and several plants, all in various stages of being pruned and taken care of. She’d given him a pair of gardening gloves— a relief, seeing as he hadn’t been looking to cake dirt under his nails when he was already struggling to sleep, and despite his protests, was brewing him a cup of tea, shuffling about in slippers and a nightdress.
“Honestly,” she said again, when he told her for the fourth he didn’t need it— “you come this far north and you won’t even let me treat you to a proper brew. None of that weak nonsense, either, a proper Scottish tea. You’re the handsome lad who’s been wavin’ to me every morning, then? Almost didn’t recognise you without the mask.”
Ghost snorted a flustered laugh, sweeping up as much soil as he could get before emptying the dustpan in the bin. With the kettle boiling, and the soft scent of baking in the kitchen, it was surprisingly peaceful— Deborah stepped over a piece of ceramic to drag over a container of tea, dumping a spoon in a cup.
“You said you’re livin’ with John, then?” She asked, turning as she closed the container.
“Yes— ma’am,” Ghost added for good measure, looking up from where he was sweeping so that she could understand him. “For a few weeks.”
“Aye? Why’s that, then?”
“He offered,” Ghost replied simply, carefully rescuing the plant from the ceramic. He was careful with the sharp edges, stacking them neatly one one another; he placed the plant in another pot she had given him as he swept up the dirt before an idea seemed to occur to him. “You’ve known John for a long time, then?”
“Since he was a boy, when his father was still with them. Lovely folk,” she replied, turning back around and walking to the kettle. “He was always a bit of a troubled child, though, more so after James. Attached at the hip, they were.”
“Troubled?” Ghost pushed, emptying the dustpan to continue sweeping. “What, did he get in fights, or something?”
She shot him a look, something amused there; reflexively, Ghost drew back.
“S’pose he doesn’t tell you anything, then?”
“No,” he replied immediately, “I mean— yeah, but— not my business, is it?”
“Seem awfully interested,” she replied, eyes twinkling— Ghost’s mouth opened and closed, before he looked back down to the pot. It was nearly cleaned; he swept up as much dirt as he could before looking up again.
“Right. Sorry.”
He managed to get the rest of the dirt off the floor, and the broken pot went in the bin; he was peeling off the gloves and making to leave when Deborah tapped him on the shoulder to have him turn, pushing a cup of tea in his hands as she guided him to sit on the cushy sofa in the middle of her living room. With just the lamp light on, it was dim and quiet— trinkets decorated every surface, decorated necklaces and beads and little glass figurines.
“Go on,” she said eagerly, guiding his hands, “take a sip.”
Ghost did; the tea was bitter, without any milk or sugar, but he was too polite to wince. It tasted better than the teabags MacTavish kept, at least, and it was strong and warm— when he took a gulp, she gave him an appreciative clap on the knee.
“Good lad! Now that’s a proper brew, isn’t it?”
“Wasn’t aware tea grew in Scotland,” Ghost said, before he could stop himself— a smile split Deborah’s lips, and she pushed the glasses higher on her nose.
“Lippy, you.”
“Been told,” Ghost huffed, taking another sip despite himself.
“John was like that as a child,” she said, out of the blue. “Always had a response to everything. And my word, you’ve never seen a child with such a temper! We used to worry about him being picked on,” she told him, matter-of-factly, “by the neighbourhood boys, being the new lad and all, and short for his age to boot. Then we had to start worrying about him pickin’ on them, and he was still in short trousers!”
“I used to get in fights as a kid,” Ghost replied, swilling the tea around his cup. Deborah’s coffee table was covered in coasters, matching blue and green ones, and he warmed his hands around the cup as he looked up at her.
“I’ve not a clue how it’s always lads like you that end up in the Army. John used to worry his mother sick comin’ home black and blue, only that he was the one picking the fights!”
“He had something to prove,” he replied— and really, he had no excuse for the way a wave of fondness washed over him— because he’d been the exact same as a teenager, angry at the world and willing to fight his way about it— “we’ve all got something to prove.”
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Deborah responded, “I’ve heard he’s made something of himself in the Army. SAS, or so his mother told me last time she visited.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ghost nodded, and he met her eye, sitting back. “He’s very good at what he does.”
“And he knows how to pick good company,” Deborah winked at him, giving him a playful nudge. “Go on, finish your tea and be on your way then, love. Plenty of time to get some rest yet.”
Communication. The field manual on urban warfare had an entire chapter on communication; traditional methods entirely relied on long stretches of empty space— radios got backed up between concrete, satellite imagery was lost in the dust of bombs, and so they relied entirely on verbal and nonverbal communication in the heat of the battle, the implicit trust they had in one another.
It was raining the next afternoon, pelting against the window, when MacTavish came back inside from a shop run. The door slammed shut; Ghost, glaring at the back of the teabag box as he did the laundry, blinked before he looked up.
Raindrops rolled down the window, collecting in the corners and cutting through condensation misting up the glass. The skies were white, reflecting off countertops and the glass— standing up, Ghost winced at the sound of heavy footsteps before he realised what he was doing.
There was no reason to wince. There was nothing to worry about.
He dropped the box back on the counter, pushing it into a corner, and shoved the remainder of the white laundry in the washing machine before kicking the laundry basket out of the way and standing up to follow, following the sound of footsteps across the apartment. The dark clouds blocked the majority of the light of the day, but they hadn’t bothered to switch the lights on— the majority of the house stayed in shadow, and Lady was nowhere to be seen.
There were two bedrooms in MacTavish’s flat— the first was bigger and full of boxes, and a cursory glance in it suggested it was filled in the same way an attic in a family home might have been, old decorations and trophies collecting dust. The other— Soap’s, was all the way at the back of the flat so that the windows faced the buildings. The curtains were drawn so that the entire room was dark; MacTavish was standing in his room with his back to the door, breathing hard and soaked to the skin from the rain. The laundry had been picked up, and the bed was unmade— he had dark green sheets, and the pillows that belonged on his bed stayed on the floor. Ghost stopped short in the doorway, eyebrows furrowing.
Soap’s hands were shaking.
Some days were just bad ones— Ghost knew it as well as anyone, and PTSD barely ever melded well with crowds. The lack of groceries, or the slamming doors probably should have given it away before he got there; he didn’t realise he was hesitating until he did, and swallowed down the instinct— Ghost didn’t hesitate. He had no reason to. A little sympathetically, he noticed where rain had flattened MacTavish’s hair to his head; truthfully unsure why he could hear his own heartbeat, he ignored it and approached MacTavish, footsteps quiet over carpet—
“John?”
Ghost didn’t know exactly what happened. One moment he was behind MacTavish, and the next, he had his fists in his collar, shoving him against the nearest wall, eyes narrow and jaw gritted—
“For fuck’s sake— stop fuckin’ sneakin’ up on me, Ghost—!”
They’ve sparred. They roughhouse. Ghost was an operative of the highest calibre, he had no excuse— no excuse for the way panic shot up his throat faster than any rational thought, the way all instinct and training disappeared to let himself be ragdolled around. He knew it was just instinct, no heat nor real intent to hurt behind it— Ghost watched in real time as MacTavish seemed to come back to himself, eyes widening as he let go, an apology already on his lips—
It was then Ghost became aware of what he was himself saying.
“—off of me, don’t fucking touch me, get the fuck off of me—”
“Ghost— Simon, calm down—”
He wasn’t touching him— he’d let go, he wasn’t even near him, having stepped back to give him space— MacTavish’s hands were still shaking as he lifted them to placate him, looking more panicked than Ghost had ever seen him—
“Get away from me—,” Ghost gasped, before he seemed to realise what he was saying, one hand pressing into his own chest—
“I didn’t— fucking hell, Simon, I—”
Ghost blinked, hard, before he seemed to finally get a hold of himself. His mouth snapped shut, MacTavish looking near frantically—
“I’m sorry— shit, I—”
“Stop—”
“—didn’t realise that it was—”
“Stop,” Ghost cut across them both more forcefully, eyes just as wide as his. “Stop, just—”
For lack of anything better to do, he snatched MacTavish’s closest hand up and pressed it into his chest, as if Soap was having a panic attack; he realised, the next moment, he’d absolutely be able to feel the way his heart was jackhammering in his chest and hurriedly curled his hand into a fist, willing the shaking to stop.
“Riley— I—”
“Are you okay?”
“I— what?”
“Captain,” Ghost pushed, perhaps the urgency in his voice the only thing that managed to quiet MacTavish.
“Yeah— yes, I’m fine,” he managed, after just a moment too long— “are you—”
“Fine,” Ghost replied— and it wasn't fine, his pulse thundering in his chest wasn’t fine, him reacting like he was twelve again wasn’t fine— “fine, I’m fine, sir.”
MacTavish didn’t seem to believe him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Ghost’s hand squeezed tighter around his; his mouth snapped shut. Rain was still drumming against the window.
“I’ll do a grocery run later,” Ghost said instead of anything else— “d’you need anything?”
“No— no, I’m—”
Ghost nodded, and didn’t wait for him to get the full sentence out before he was out the door.
He turned the washing machine on and got MacTavish a towel to dry off, insisting to his apologies that it was fine; an hour later, when he returned with groceries, MacTavish was waiting for him in the living room and Lady purring on the sofa with him.
His voice was low over the rain and sincere when he apologised again, hands open, earnest and serious. Ghost apologised too, insisted again that it was fine; and he had no excuse, really, for the fact that he’d ended up buying another box of that god-awful tea, only that he didn’t want MacTavish to say anything about it.
Ghost wasn’t thinking about field manuals when he jerked awake the next night. There were tears rolling down his temples, into his ears— he wasn’t thinking about anything, not the springs digging into his back or the yowl with which Lady jumped away from him as he thrashed himself awake— there was bile in his throat, and he was half gasping, half dry heaving for air as he threw himself out of bed, tangling himself in the sheets and landing hard against the floor. His chest was rising and falling so fast it ached, and panicking, he clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound of desperate hyperventilating. A dull throb was issuing from his shoulder where he had fallen— sitting up, Ghost raked a hand through his hair, forcing his breathing to slow.
He needed to breathe— that was it, he needed to breathe, needed to calm down— he took a fist of his own hair, eyes squeezing shut as he forced his breathing to slow, getting to his feet. He needed something to do, needed to get away, and he half stumbled to the kitchen, leaving the lights off as he snatched a glass from the dishrack and turned the squeaking tap. It was just a nightmare— just a nightmare, he repeated firmly, wiping at his face where new tears had fallen, he was fine.
The first glass of water was cold where the boiler hadn’t yet warmed up, and Ghost drank it greedily— by the time Ghost had finished it and was filling up his second, his breathing had evened some; the condensation over the glass froze in the cold flat in a way that was grounding, tethering him to the kitchen. He was still gasping for air, but he wasn’t white knuckling the sink for support anymore; he wiped over his face again, not for any new tears but to feel the sensation of cold water where it had spilled over onto his hands on his skin.
The rain had restarted somewhere in the night, lighter than the day before; the blinds were drawn, but Ghost imagined the way the fine droplets would catch the light as they caught the glass. Lady was nowhere to be seen, and he took the next sip of water a little guiltily— she’d fallen asleep on the armrest, leaving fur in her wake.
Taking a long breath, Ghost switched off the tap and turned around, his back to the sink.
The kitchen was dark. The flat was dark— if he concentrated, he could hear slow breaths in the bedroom, and shut his eyes.
All at once, a car alarm went off in the street. Ghost flinched enough for the glass to slip out of his hands.
A deafening crash sounded as it crashed against tile— sharp shards exploded in every direction, the sound echoing around. The water left spilled everywhere, and the heavy base of the glass shattered cleanly in two, one side falling and the other rocked against the floor with a clatter, sharp edges catching what little light there was—
The car alarm stopped abruptly, and it left Ghost with his heart thundering in his throat.
It was just a glass. Just a glass. Probably didn’t mean anything, he reassured himself, dropping to his knees— a little panicked, he began picking up the shards, fishing them from the water— he wasn’t a child anymore, it didn’t matter, no one in their right mind would care about a glass, least of all MacTavish—
He didn’t know what he was doing there. Not in MacTavish’s flat, not anywhere outside of base, if he was honest— unable to relax, to sleep, to have a drink of water without fucking up somehow; a shard of glass slipped against his fingers with a sharp scratch, clattering against the floor and followed by a droplet of scarlet rolling from his hands. Wiping up the blood on his sleeve, Ghost hurriedly picked the shard back up, hand squeezing around it as he wiped at his face— he didn’t belong there, didn’t belong in any world without some sort of fight— he didn’t know what he was thinking, suggesting coming here, following through with it—
“Simon?”
Ghost went still.
He’d left his back to the door.
“It’s fine,” he said out loud, cringing at the shake in his voice— “I’m sorry— it’s fine, I’m cleaning it up.”
MacTavish stepped closer, and Ghost’s hand closed so tightly on the fistful of shards that blood rolled down his wrist, warm and wet.
“Simon—”
“Fine,” he insisted, and he was leaving blood everywhere, smeared marks when he swiped it up with his sleeve again and spreading in the water on the floor to stain it pink— he’d have to go back and clean it— “it’s okay— I didn’t mean to drop it—”
“Let go— fucking hell,” Ghost’s pulse spiked so violently as he stepped towards him that he was nearly dizzy with it— hands closed around his wrist, firm and insistent— “you’re hurting yourself—”
He knew at least twenty ways to disarm someone who had him by the wrist— he was trained in it, he was surrounded by possible weapons, fucking hell, he had taught people how to get free from this exact situation—
“Fucking let go of it, Ghost,” MacTavish spat out, and he did, opening his hand hurriedly. The shards that hadn’t embedded themselves into skin fell with a clatter against tile, more blood rolling down and onto MacTavish’s hand— somehow managing to panic more, he twisted his wrist frantically, trying to get out of his grip—
“Calm down— calm down, breathe, Ghost— breathe, it’s just me—”
MacTavish forced his hand open, and began attempting to brush the glass out of his skin. Ghost managed to stifle the sound that threatened to spill by pressing his other hand to his mouth, nails digging into the skin of his face— MacTavish stopped short, and when Ghost finally managed to look up, his eyes were wide, near horrified.
Their eyes met, and Ghost swallowed around the lump in his throat.
“John,” he whispered, unsure of what else to say. MacTavish still had a vice grip around his wrist, and let go to gently pull him up by the shoulders.
“Clean up— not here,” MacTavish added, pulling him away from the glass still on the floor— there was still blood on the floor and coating some of the shards, “go to the bathroom— run your hand under the tap, don’t try and take any of the glass out yourself—”
“Captain,” Ghost said again, “wait— John—”
“Go,” MacTavish said again— his tone wasn’t unkind, but Ghost had to try to not feel as though he’d managed to let him down because of it.
When MacTavish stepped into the bathroom, it was with the silence that meant he had something to say. The running tap was lukewarm, and was barely smarting against the glass still embedded in his skin; the water had long since run clear, and MacTavish leant against the door as he stepped inside.
The bathroom had pale white tiles, and Ghost had only switched on the shaving light above the mirror. Both of their toothbrushes, side by side, their towels, together on the towel rack, the white laundry that MacTavish had left to dry on the radiator— it was all illuminated by soft yellow light. It was still raining, drumming against the windows.
“Simon.”
Ghost glanced up in the mirror to look at Soap. He still had that bedhead; he didn’t know why he hadn’t teased him about it yet. He watched in the mirror as he opened his mouth, inordinately hesitant in a way that made him seem younger than he was—
“Are you scared of me?”
Ghost blinked.
“What?”
“Are you,” MacTavish repeated, wetting his lips, “I’m not sure if it’s because of yesterday— or just— are you scared of me?”
“No,” Ghost replied without hesitation, before his mind seemed to catch up with his mouth— “no— no, why would I be scared of you?”
“Ghost.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Ghost repeated insistently, because it was true. “It was just— it was just a nightmare, it’s fine, it’s—”
“If I have to hear those words out of your mouth one more time—”
Ghost stiffened, and MacTavish stopped short.
If he turned his hand at the right angle, he could see where the little pieces of glass caught the light. He hadn’t even realised that it had hurt, so preoccupied with trying to clean up; he looked up again at MacTavish, who was looking at the glass.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
The confession seemed to surprise them both— he watched MacTavish’s eyes snap up before Ghost looked back down to the sink.
“I—,” Ghost began, opening his mouth to provide some sort of explanation— his skin stretched uncomfortably on his cheeks where tears had fallen and dried, “I don’t know what I’m doing here, I’m not— I’m not used to this— I don’t know—,” he cut himself to take a deep breath, and switched off the tap— “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t need to do anything,” MacTavish replied immediately, eyebrows knitting—
“You’re different here,” Ghost shot back, “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what you want me to do— so I don’t know how you’re going to react— and you’re different here—”
“I’m different?” MacTavish asked incredulously— Ghost scoffed, finally turning around—
“Captain— I’m in your flat, and I— I don’t know anything about you! I don’t—”
Ghost swallowed again, willing the waver from his voice, and turned back to the sink to switch the water on as hot as it got before putting his hand back under it.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do to me,” he managed, finally, “I don’t— I know you in the field, I know you, but—”
“Treat everything as a threat until proven otherwise,” MacTavish finished for him; Ghost couldn’t meet his eye. “That’s out of the field manual, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t even be in a normal home without relying on field manuals and training. The water was burning, hot enough that it had started going pink again.
“I— yeah.”
“Am I a threat to you?”
The glass burned under the water, aching and throbbing; chewing on the inside of his cheek, Ghost tried not to let it show on his face.
“No,” he mumbled. The water stung badly enough that he turned his hand away from it, resisting the urge to curl it into a fist— “no.”
It was ridiculous. Half the time they spoke they both had rifles in their hands, armed to the teeth, but here, now, he couldn’t even get it into his head that nothing was going to happen to him.
When he looked up again, MacTavish was gone, and the door was ajar. It wasn’t like Ghost was surprised, but the sting of it burned into his throat and eyes; blinking hard, Ghost switched off the tap again and dried his hand on his towel, careful to avoid pressing anything in. The skin of his palm was pink and flushed, throbbing in time with his slowing heartbeat.
He’d have to leave. There wasn’t anything for it— it had always been like this, at home and when he had stayed with Tommy, too— he’d fuck it up and he’d have to leave.
Somehow, despite it all, Ghost desperately didn’t want to.
“You’ll have to sit on the counter,” MacTavish began immediately as he came in, cutting across his thoughts, “ceiling light’s useless and I won’t be able to see anything unless the angle’s right.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a first aid kit,” MacTavish told him, “it should have tweezers. Come on.”
The counter space was limited; MacTavish helped him up to keep him from having to use his hands as Ghost shuffled to get as much of his hand under the light as he could. There were two or three large shards, and five smaller ones embedded into the skin— MacTavish fished a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit and gently opened his hand, drying the remainder on a piece of gauze. Before Ghost could say anything, though, a picture frame was shoved into his free hand.
“The bear’s called Simon.”
Ghost blinked.
“The one you dug out from the cupboard— I don’t even know where you found him,” MacTavish continued, and under the light, a flush was picking up over his cheeks again, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he carefully grabbed the first shard of glass. “Simon Peter, actually. All my sister’s have ‘em matching from our aunt, got ‘em at their christenings. Their’s are all named after the Gospels. Maureen’s is called Luke— she’s the one with the fringe,” he told him, and Ghost looked down at the picture again, to the oldest girl, laughing at the camera— “Caroline and Tee— her name’s Tamara, but we all call her Tee— have Matthew and Mark—”
“They’re the twins?” Ghost asked, looking at the two near identical girls in the picture. All at once, MacTavish’s grip around the shard tightened, and he pulled it free— Ghost inhaled sharply, and MacTavish smoothed a hand over his to soothe.
“That’s right. Alice got John— that’s the birthday girl— and she used to call the bear Big John, and me Little John, and it pissed me off so much I spilled apple juice in her bed. I was a surprise,” Soap admitted, smiling a little, “so I got mine named after Simon Peter instead. You know—”
“The disciple, yeah— I’ve been to church, sir,” Ghost replied, smiling despite himself. Huffing softly, MacTavish grasped the next one— as quickly as he could, he pulled the shard out, dropping it in the sink. Blood beaded on the wound, scarlet and shining— before he could think about it, MacTavish swiped it away.
“Didn’t even make the connection until the other day. Haven’t even thought about Simon— the bear,” he clarified, “until you dug him out. Slept with him every night as a kid.”
Ghost looked back down to the boy in the picture— scowling, overexposed in the harsh sunlight of a cheap camera— and tried to imagine him cuddling up with a teddy bear to fall asleep. The flush was still pinching the tips of MacTavish’s ears red, travelling down to the back of his neck— Ghost held steady as MacTavish began arduously coaxing out a smaller piece of glass, holding his wrist to keep his hand still; the rain was still audible behind the window.
“Used to live in Perth,” MacTavish said, quiet and soft where he could feel his breath against his hand— “it’s near Dundee. When my dad got sick we came all the way here.”
“Because it’s by the hospital?”
“That’s right. Edinburgh Royal apparently had, or has, one o’ the best mental health clinics in Scotland, so my mum packed us all up when I was ten and had us move here, within walkin’ distance. Maureen and Caro were already in university, and Tee moved out to live with her boyfriend a few months in, so it was just the four of us.”
More glass came out. Ghost couldn’t help but stare at the serious look in MacTavish’s eye as he concentrated, the furrow in his eyebrow— his hand shook slightly, and MacTavish brushed a thumb across it again, murmuring quiet reassurances.
“You’re alright, you’re okay. Just a few more.”
They lapsed into silence again; Ghost kept as still as he could, and found that all he really wanted to do was listen to him talk. There was something unfairly soothing about it— about the sound of his voice, the way he was carefully getting the glass out— Ghost shifted, gently nudging a foot into his leg.
“Go on.”
“And then there were three,” MacTavish replied, looking up at him. His eyes flickered down to the picture, to the man grinning behind them all, eyes so similar to MacTavish’s and beaming with an arm around his wife— Ghost looked back up to him, but he had already looked away— “he drove our car into an empty garage somewhere, closed the doors and locked it down, and kept the engine running until he— he,” MacTavish cut himself off, looking back down to Ghost’s hand. Tilting his head, Ghost looked at him, eyebrows furrowing.
“Broke my mam’s heart,” MacTavish muttered, more to himself than Ghost. “Week after I turned eleven.”
The tweezers stayed still. Ghost didn’t move, not for several moments, until he twisted to catch Soap’s hand and give it a squeeze— it seemed to blink him out of his reverie, and he huffed a soft laugh again, before turning his hand open and gently opening it again.
“Funny thing was I hated living here, more than anything. Our house in Perth had a garden, and my own bedroom, and these massive windows that let all the light in— and here, I was stuck sharin’ a room with my sister, in a flat away from all my friends— tried enlisting four times, lied about my age when I was sixteen and all. But when I turned twenty, my mam finally decided to leave and I ended up renting it out instead. It’s all my sister’s and my mum’s stuff in the next room, everything I never got round to getting rid of.”
The glass fell into the sink with a plink. Ghost bit his lip as the next piece was steadily dug out, squeezing his eyes shut to listen to the soft reassurances. They lapsed into silence, only the soft sound of breathing, and the dripping of the tap in the kitchen; tiredness had left stains under MacTavish’s eyes where he had woken up as abruptly as Ghost— he was still cleaning out the glass and blood from Ghost’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after several moments.
“Don’t be,” MacTavish replied, glancing up. “I wanted you to know.”
More silence, but nowhere near as imposing as before. The last piece of glass was embedded into the meat of his thumb; Ghost swallowed before he spoke next.
“I’m sorry about the rest of it, too.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” MacTavish asked finally, pausing where he was to meet his eye. “I would have— Christ, if I knew you were thinking like that, I would have told you anything you wanted.”
He’d all but bared his soul to him because he had asked. Ghost looked over him, over the earnest way his eyebrows were knitted and the gentle way he had pried sharp glass from his hand, and chewed on the inside of his cheek as he looked away.
“I—,” Ghost began, and shut his eyes to steel himself to the little bit of honesty in return. “All the— the worst things that have— that happened to me were outside the field. Or— or before I enlisted. I’m not—,” he huffed around the confession, “I’m not used to this, sir, there’s no field manual for this.”
When he finally opened his eyes, MacTavish was still looking at him. It wasn’t pity— never pity, but something more intense that nearly had Ghost squirming. Momentarily, he let go of Ghost’s hand to let his hand come up to his cheek, and a calloused thumb swiped across dried tear tracks— the next moment, it retracted, leaving his skin warm in its wake.
“You’ve been so quiet,” MacTavish muttered quietly, and returned to try and coax the last piece of glass out. Ghost tilted his head, frowning slightly—
“I didn’t think I was that loud normally.”
“Not that sort of quiet, Simon.”
Ghost watched him mentally pick the words, the same expression on his face as he’d seen him use when he was picking men for a mission. The tweezers were still for a moment, forgotten and reflecting the golden yellow light of the shaving light.
“You know your things’re all over my office on base?” MacTavish settled on finally. The tweezers gently pressed in, pushing the glass out; they squeezed against skin as they unsuccessfully tried to pick it out.
“That’s not my fault. Your office is a mess.”
MacTavish did laugh out loud at that, short and satisfied— he shook his head a little incredulously, trying to pick the glass again.
“Your things’re all over my office, and you’re always on the sofa like you own it, you’ve always got something to say— always,” he reiterated, with a split second glance up at him— “and then— and then we came here, and you’re so— quiet, Ghost. I barely see you. You don’t say anything. You don’t— you don’t complain,” he laughed, a little incredulous, as Ghost watched, “you’re always cleaning up after yourself, after me, doin’ all the chores, and all your things’re still in your bag like you’re still expectin’ to be asked to leave— it’s like you don’t take up any space.”
Ghost didn’t exactly know what to say to that. He opened his mouth and closed it, but MacTavish wasn’t done—
“And I miss it. I miss— it. You. I’d never,” MacTavish swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat— “earlier, you said something about— not knowing what I’d do to you, and Simon— I’d never do anything to hurt you. Not if my life fuckin’ depended on it— if I ever make you feel sorry for— for dropping a glass or something, if I ever make you react like that, just shoot me in the fucking head, because I—”
“Your tea tastes like shit,” Ghost blurted out, just as the final shard of glass came out. It landed in the sink, collided with it twice before landing with the other pieces, audible in the slightly stunned silence from both of them. MacTavish was looking at him with wide eyes, lips slightly parted.
“Your tea tastes like shit,” he repeated, “we’ve gone on missions where I’ve slept more comfortable than on that sofa bed, your flat’s fucking freezing, you can’t tell your neighbour you’ve been feeding Lady, because I think she’ll kill you— and I missed you, I missed you too.”
MacTavish blinked, before an incredulous smile tugged at his lips— Ghost mirrored it, laughing softly as he leant back against the mirror.
“And you’ve got constant bedhead. I don’t know if you genuinely just don’t notice,” Ghost grinned, as MacTavish’s hand shot up to self consciously pat it down, “or if you just think it looks good— you can’t fry eggs for shit, you own so many pillows—”
“Alright,” MacTavish cut across him with a scowl, digging through the first aid kit for ointment. Lady chose that moment to saunter in, curious at the light; she hopped up on the counter as MacTavish slathered on the ointment on his hand, before looking around for bandages.
“Where’ve you been?” He asked, petting over her head— rain was still coming down in sheets against the window, but her fur was dry. “What, stealing more food off old ladies?”
She mewed in response, climbing into his lap as MacTavish carefully bandaged around his hand; when he was done, he leaned over Ghost to scratch under her chin and pet over her sides. She let out a self satisfied purr, and let Ghost scoop her up as MacTavish helped him off the counter, hands by his waist to steady him.
It was nearly the morning by the time the two of them climbed into MacTavish’s bed, Lady slipping between them. Ghost rested his head somewhere by MacTavish’s shoulder, and in turn, he hooked his arms around him to keep him close, chests pressed together so that Ghost could hear their matching heartbeats. He slung a leg over him as MacTavish pulled the blanket up over them both— Soap fell asleep first, Lady purring somewhere by his head, and it left Ghost to be lulled to sleep on a comfortable bed, warm and soft and quiet, listening to his heartbeat and the rain.