Work Text:
The comedown from the adrenaline of a fight always made everything quieter.
It was late at night. The moon hung over the horizon, a waxing crescent that barely shone through wafting grey clouds; MacTavish’s office, exactly as messy as he had left it, seemed to swallow all sound, so that the air hung heavy, thick where the window had been shut.
The shower had washed away all the remainders of the mission— in comfortable clothes and surrounded by familiar forms left to be filled in before the mission debrief the next morning, it was only the fatigue in his muscles that proved that there had been any mission at all. It was late enough that the only light on in the office, his desk lamp, was dim and cast dark shadows around the room.
His computer whined as he sat down heavily in his seat, switching it on, and the clock ticked quietly. There was always something to do, something to say, something to chase to keep the ball rolling— with a yawn, a long sigh, and an ominous creak of his back where he stretched that he chose to blame on his chair, Soap got to work.
At that moment, however, Ghost burst through the door.
It had been all of twenty-five minutes since they had gotten back; Ghost looked nearly exactly the same as when MacTavish had left him to the medical wing, except for where his gear was missing, where the scarlet blood on his mask was purple, having oxidised in the air, and where he was seething, eyes narrowed and downright venomous.
“We need to talk.”
“Ghost,” MacTavish replied, already frowning, “you need to get back to medical—”
“We,” Ghost snapped back, stalking towards him, “need to talk. You hesitated. We talked about this, that can’t happen, you can’t hesitate—”
There was a medical kit hanging from a tight fist, and Ghost’s gloves were missing, revealing split, bloody knuckles— his eyes were burning low, dark in the dim light.
“Lieutenant,” MacTavish cut across him, standing up, “get out of my office and get back to the medical wing—”
“You’re seriously refusing to talk about this?” Ghost demanded incredulously, gesturing around.
“Keep your voice down,” MacTavish replied, glaring down at him; Ghost chewed furiously on the inside of his cheek, planting his feet.
“You hesitated,” Ghost continued in a furious whisper, “you froze— you could have got her killed, sir— fuck, they could have killed you—”
MacTavish scoffed at that, disbelieving— if anything, Ghost’s scowl deepened, tilting his head up defiantly as MacTavish approached—
“They could have killed me? You were the one with the fucking rifle pointed at your head!”
“There was a civilian hostage, a consul at that,” Ghost snapped back, “I would have been fine, your priorities should have been with her—”
“You would have been fine?” He sneered, absolutely disbelieving— “gun pointed to your head, your nose smashed against the floor—”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Get back to medical, Ghost,” MacTavish interrupted him, shoving into his chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the debrief.”
“No.”
MacTavish’s eyes narrowed.
“Beg your fuckin’ pardon, lieutenant?”
“I’m not going back to medical until we talk about this,” he replied, jaw setting.
“Ghost.”
He remembered the sound Ghost’s nose made against the marble floor of the embassy, on his stomach and kicked into the back of his head. Remembered blood exploding from the front of the mask, staining the white of his mask a sticky red, remembered the dazed, nearly confused look in his eyes as he’d looked up and assured him the gun to the back of his head was a time-wasting strategy—
“I’m not leaving,” Ghost insisted, “captain— you hesitated because of me— that woman could have died, because you hesitated, because of me—”
“Riley, get out—”
“The optics of that, at the very least— a consul, in the fucking embassy of all places—”
“Get the fuck out my office,” MacTavish cut across him, shoving into him again— the glare Ghost fixed him with was scathing, nearly contemptuous—
“Fucking make me, then.”
“You,” MacTavish began, grabbing a fistful of his collar— “are fuckin’ unbelievable, d’you know that?”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Ghost hissed, gripping his wrist with equal anger— his glasses were missing, broken and likely in his pocket, so MacTavish could see his eyes when he bore closer, and almost imagine the way his lips would be curled back— “you can’t freeze because it’s me with the gun to my head, you would have gotten her killed, you would have gotten yourself killed—”
“I wasn’t thinking,” MacTavish snarled, inches from his face, “that’s the fuckin’ problem, isn’t it? I can’t— I couldn’t think, I wasn’t thinking! You had a fucking gun to your head!”
“You had a choice,” Ghost whispered, “get the civilian hostage, or me. Her husband was outside, he was waiting for her— you wouldn’t have hesitated if it was anyone else, captain, and in every situation, it has to be her, she has to come first—”
“You don’t think I fucking know that?” MacTavish demanded, hand tightening angrily in his hoodie— this close, he could make out every fleck of blood, dried and congealing, that had bled into his mask; he could see Ghost chew angrily on the inside of his cheek, the other side of the Glasgow smile, never letting it heal properly—
“That’s the job, captain,” Ghost spat, venomous and low, “that’s the job, we get guns pointed at our heads, and it doesn’t matter, it can’t matter, and if you can’t do that, then—”
MacTavish cut Ghost off by physically dragging him to the guest chair, and pushing him down into it. He made a short sound of protest, like he was going to say something— MacTavish snatched the medical kit from his hand and threw it down on his desk, turning to pull it open and dig through it.
“You,” MacTavish began, fist closing around an alcohol wipe before he ripped it open— he turned, and where Ghost was determinedly glaring at his desk, took him by the chin to force eye contact, lifting his head so that a sliver of the pale skin of his neck appeared, “you don’t get to question my authority as a captain— your captain,” he added, hands squeezing around his face when Ghost didn’t meet his eye. His eyes flickered upwards, boring into MacTavish’s, but he didn’t say anything else, cold and blue; several moments passed, tense and quiet.
“The mask,” MacTavish said finally, letting go. Ghost’s head stayed at the angle MacTavish left it, his gaze unblinking and heavy.
It was a choice. That didn’t change, even when Ghost was purposely being stubborn, defiant just because he could be— he waited, alcohol wipe drying in his hands, as Ghost blinked at him, looking away as he sighed, before lifting a hand up to it.
“You never let ‘em clean your face for you,” MacTavish muttered, as Ghost tugged the mask over his head, running a hand through his hair to try and flatten it as he pocketed it with his other hand; Soap lifted his chin again, glaring down at the smeared blood all over his face. It had dried and crusted over pale skin, over his upper lip and over his cheeks— it had dried in the bumpy texture of his mask, vertical lines over his face and in the crevices of his lips. Eyeblack clung in his eyelashes, sticking them together; without the mask, all at once, he looked tireder, younger, smaller.
“Too many people there,” Ghost mumbled, and let him tilt his face back up, eyes slipping closed as he carefully begun wiping the blood from his cheeks. “S’not like it’s broken.”
For all of his anger, it was a surprisingly acquiescing gesture; when MacTavish lifted his head higher to wipe where the blood had dried on his nose, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, before he sighed, a hand curling around his ribs with the movement.
“You get those checked out in medical?”
“Said they’re cracked. Breathing’s fine. Can’t do any heavy lifting.”
“And you’re plannin’ to listen to that advice?” MacTavish asked, lifting the alcohol wipe momentarily. Ghost blinked, perhaps at the sudden scrutiny, and the corners of his lips twitched up—
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, aye? Why don’t I believe you, then?”
“You’re a deeply mistrusting man, sir.”
“Because you’re one to talk,” MacTavish replied, huffing a little. His computer was still whining quietly in the background, although the screen had switched off, turning black. Swiping away more blood revealed the purple bruise where he’d hit the floor— as the wipe came closer to his lips, he looked up at Ghost, waiting.
“Alright?”
“Okay,” Ghost replied easily, a hand curling gently around his wrist. It was a thing Ghost did, holding onto his wrist, and MacTavish would be lying if he said he didn’t find it endearing; he let him, then, as he carefully wiped over the cupid’s bow of his lips, and then pulled his lips gently apart with his thumb to wipe at his lower lip. He held eye contact all the way through it, intense even when there was no heat behind it.
“I wasn’t questioning your authority,” Ghost mumbled, when he came up clear; the spent wipe went on his desk, and MacTavish turned to get a fresh one, clutching it between his teeth as he tore it open.
“Sir,” Ghost added, like it was an afterthought. When he turned, Ghost’s broken glasses were in his hand, one arm missing and the red tinted glass scratched— when he caught him looking, he tucked it back in his pocket.
Where it was resting in his lap, MacTavish lifted Ghost’s hand up, dabbing gently at the split knuckles; Ghost stifled the wince by pressing his lips together—
“You’re alright. It’s okay, just a second.”
“I know that,” Ghost huffed, before looking up at him, eyes bright with a soft sort of amusement. “You’re always doing that.”
“What?”
“You’re always doing that— I know it’ll just be a second, sir, it’s not like it hurts.”
“It’s alcohol on an open wound.”
“It’s been worse,” Ghost replied, looking up at him with that same amusement; MacTavish huffed, letting go of his hand for a moment to try and flatten his hair. Ghost spluttered incredulously, but let him, letting him tilt his head up to look at him—
“Come on, let’s do the mission debrief.”
“What, now?”
“Still want you up tomorrow morning for the debrief with everyone else,” MacTavish told him, raking his hand through his hair before letting go before picking up his other hand— “bad for morale if the team sees me letting you skip it.”
“You’re awful,” Ghost muttered, dramatic because he could be, shaking his head slightly before wincing around another sigh. “Alright, alright. At about sixteen hundred hours, insurgents took over the Algerian embassy building. Initial estimates said there were sixteen insurgents,” Ghost continued, as MacTavish dropped the second wipe to turn and pick up the antiseptic cream, picking his hand up again to carefully apply it to his knuckles, “and six civilian hostages. Mission objectives were neutralisation of all targets and recovery of all hostages, with a strike team of six. We were cleared to enter the building at 1645, to find ten insurgents and six civilian hostages— all ten were neutralised and all six hostages recovered safely. In all, the operation took two hours and twenty five minutes.”
The clock was still ticking softly behind them. Holding out his hand, MacTavish waited for Ghost to offer him his other hand, leaning back against his desk as he did.
“What happened at the end?”
“Captain,” Ghost frowned, looking up, “we don’t need to—”
“It’s part of the mission report, Riley.”
In the night, Ghost’s hand was cold in his. Clearing away the blood had made scarred knuckles visible, freshly split and barely healed; despite the visible fatigue from the mission, Ghost’s eyes were surprisingly alert as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, visibly weighing his options.
“Towards the end of the mission,” Ghost began finally, and MacTavish looked down to finish applying antiseptic cream to his knuckles, “one of the consuls was separated from the other and held as collateral.”
“Yeah?”
“Sandman got into trouble on the gallery of the first floor, and when I went to assist, I got— I got injured, so—”
Ghost exhaled harshly, like he was frustrated with himself, before blinking it off. MacTavish dropped his hand to lean back against his desk, watching as Ghost cracked his knuckles and let his hands drop to his lap.
“Towards the end, a civilian and an injured soldier were held at gunpoint. The three targets involved were neutralised, the first two by me and then you— and it was a stalling tactic,” Ghost insisted, meeting his eye— “they weren’t actually expecting you to choose, they were wasting time so they could get out of there before backup arrived—”
“What side did you land on, when you fell from the gallery?”
Ghost exhaled again, low and harsh, like he’d been caught making a mistake— crossing his arms, he sat back in the chair, not meeting his eye.
“Simon,” Soap muttered, leaning forward to lift his chin.
“Left,” Ghost replied, and under his hand, MacTavish could feel the way his voice vibrated in his throat. “I landed on my left side.”
“Let me look.”
Ghost blinked.
It was late enough that the shadows formed from his desk lamp made everything look darker; Ghost’s pupils were dilated in the dark, eyes flickering over his face like he was waiting for something. Whether he found it or not, MacTavish wasn’t sure— because the next moment, he picked up Soap’s hand by the wrist and lifted his own hoodie, pressing it against his ribs around the back.
“There,” Ghost muttered, and even like that, he was unable to help the way he was tense under the contact— “three cracked, two bruised.”
His skin was warm under his hand, and Ghost held him by the wrist— not pushing or pulling, but keeping him there, keeping him still. Pressing gently made Ghost wince, so he smoothed a thumb over soft skin, earning a shaking breath out of him where he couldn’t quite manage to stifle.
“What I saw on that mission,” Soap began, before he could stop himself— Ghost’s hand tightened around his wrist, but didn’t outright push him away, “what I saw, was that you’d lost your rifle, you were prone under him, that you’d fallen from the first floor and you weren’t breathing properly, that— that he kicked you—”
He remembered the sound Ghost’s nose made against the marble floor, the sound his glasses made when they were crushed and snapped— remembered the wave of anger, panic, all-out fear he had felt when the boot had come down against the back of his head—
“I know it was a time-wasting tactic. I know it didn’t matter. I know that,” he said softly, and a hand came to curl into the back of Ghost’s head, tender over what had to be painful skin, “it didn’t— it didn’t change the fact it was you.”
“It’s been worse,” Ghost told him, eyebrows knitting slightly. And he always looked younger like that, the way the light caught his eyelashes and made the scars over his skin disappear— unable to help himself, MacTavish gently pushed into the furrow between his eyebrows with his thumb, suddenly aware of how close they were, one hand still pressed flat against his ribcage so that he could hear his heartbeat—
“Forget you’re still a kid, sometimes.”
“What?” Ghost snapped immediately, frowning more when MacTavish huffed around a soft laugh—
“You act like you can’t die,” he murmured, pushing the hair back from his forehead; “pisses me off. The way you jumped in to help Sandman. Didn’t even fuckin’ think about it, did you? You don’t think— you just,” he sighed, “you don’t think about yourself, do you?”
He half expected Ghost to snap back a reply, and for a second, he did inhale, like he was about to argue— but what came out was another wincing sigh. He chewed angrily on his cheek, but seemed all at once smaller, eyes suddenly averted and voice quiet—
“It’s the same for me.”
“Huh?”
“You— you froze. Aside from Sandman, you were the only person who had a clear shot, the only one of us in the west wing. And— and you froze,” Ghost insisted, something nearly desperate crossing his expression— “you weren’t thinking, you hesitated, you froze— why don’t you get that whatever you were thinking, it was the same for me?”
The first thing Ghost had done, uncaring of the gun to his head or the way the consul was screaming, was reassure them both that it was a time-wasting strategy. She’d been pleading, half in Arabic and half in French, tears brimming in her eyes and a gun to her neck, and MacTavish’s hands were nearly shaking around his gun as he watched blood pool in front of Ghost— and out of everything, he’d reassured them first.
It wasn’t the same thing. How angry he was at Ghost, not just for the attitude, but for leaving the medical wing early, for the complete lack of self preservation, didn’t compare to anything Ghost must have been feeling—
Except for the fact that Ghost had burst into his office even angrier than he had been.
“I can’t—,” MacTavish began, before cutting himself off. Ghost’s hand was still around his wrist where it was resting on his chest— carefully, watching for his reaction, he moved it, pressing it against Ghost’s sternum. His hand came tight as he seemed to tense, all at once, and MacTavish could feel the way his heart rate spiked under his hand— it took him several moments to relax slightly, eyes wide and blinking up at him. “You can’t act like you can’t die, because I can’t— I can’t not freeze. Not when it’s you. D’you understand?”
Maybe it wasn’t anger. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was fear, maybe it was panic, undistilled and desperate—
“It’s been worse before,” MacTavish continued, truthfully unsure of where words were spilling out of him from, feeling his heart thump under skin that he knew was shiny with scars— “that’s— I get that, but I— I can’t, you need to get that, too, that I can’t, that it’s not just you in there, it’s us.”
“The 141?” Ghost asked, eyebrows furrowing as he seemed to unstick his tongue—
“Us.”
He did feel Ghost’s heart rate tick up at that; he didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he mention the way Ghost’s hand tightened around his wrist so much that he could feel his nails digging into his wrist, even when he didn’t pull him away.
“Alright?” MacTavish asked finally, unable to help the edgy note in his voice. Ghost’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, so finally, MacTavish pulled the hand off his chest to smooth a thumb over his cheek, brushing gently over the bruise on his nose.
“Yeah— yeah,” Ghost replied, like he had been snapped out of a reverie, “yes.”
“Good lad,” he murmured, thumb brushing under his eye. Ghost hummed softly against his hand, and looked up at him—
“You’re doing it again. Like I’m a kid. I’m nearly your age.”
“Yeah,” MacTavish huffed, cupping his cheek and drawing an arc with his thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Still got a while, though.”
His computer had switched off at some point, where he hadn’t touched any keys; it left the office even quieter, except for the ticking clock. Ghost leant his weight heavily in his hand, trusting the way he supported it. He was still sat down, sat back in the chair— finally, pushing back a lock of hair where it had fallen into his face, MacTavish nudged his chin up and turned back to his desk, cleaning up.
“You going to bed?”
“No,” MacTavish replied, “I’ll sort the papers for this tonight so I’ll be less busy tomorrow.”
“Let me help. Get it done faster.”
Glancing over the desk, MacTavish folded the used up alcohol wipes in their packaging to throw in his bin, and dropped the antiseptic went back in the medical kit, which was zipped back up; there wasn’t really that much work, and he’d have the opportunity to finish it at the morning debrief, but—
“Go on. I’ll join up my letters and everything,” Ghost pushed, and he could almost imagine the smirk on his face. He feigned the exasperated sigh, more to watch the way Ghost’s eyes would narrow in amusement, lips curling around a smile.
“You aren’t tired?” He asked, but picked up a pile of papers to clear some space all the same— Ghost stood up and picked up his own chair easily, walking around the desk.
“Aren’t you?” Ghost asked, dropping it down on the floor. “If it’s past my bedtime, it’s past yours, too.”
“You aren’t goin’ to let this go, are you?”
“No, sir,” he grinned, teeth sharp and eyes shining— MacTavish’s heart did a funny flip in his chest, and he distracted himself by shoving half of his work at Ghost and looking around for a pen for him.
The comedown from the adrenaline made everything quieter. Ghost clicked the pen he found him several times with his thumb as he looked over the forms, the dark sky visible in the gap of light between the blinds— idly, MacTavish’s foot pressed against his as he switched his computer back on, the quiet thick and soft as it surrounded them both.