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“Ghost— Riley, come on, wake up, you’re hurting yourself—”
Ghost woke up from the third nightmare he had had that night with a body pressed to his front.
“Stop fighting me— Riley, c’mon, you’re safe, you’re alright—”
His first thought, wildly, was that he didn’t want Tommy, sleeping in the other bunk, to see what was happening. Phantom touches slid over his skin, and he shuddered, disgusted as he forced his eyes open— but he didn’t recognise the sheets under him, didn’t recognise the ticking clock or the lamplight that didn’t belong to his bedroom, the edges of his vision swimming. There was a shadow over him, and he suddenly became aware of the fact he was fighting with it, wrestling back, one wrist pinned to the mattress as he shoved and pushed— something made contact with his chest, more soft words spoken, and Ghost moved like he was going to kill whoever it was. A hand caught his other wrist, stinging as it dragged it down to the mattress same as the first, and Ghost’s chest heaved as he writhed—
“Wake up— come on, Ghost, stop, wake up— shit—”
He dug his heels into the mattress to leverage enough space to kick him away, and a knee pressed hard into the juncture of his hip, pinning him down and preventing him from kicking— his pulse skyrocketed, heart beating so fast his chest physically ached with it as he writhed like a stuck insect—
He didn’t recognise the sheets, and didn’t recognise the room, either, but when he moved to headbutt whoever was on him, both of his wrists were manhandled onto his chest so that he could be he could be kept pressed into the mattress— all at once, Ghost recognised the weight who was leaning against him.
“Ghost— sh, Ghost, come on, stop fighting for a second—”
With a wave of nausea, he seemed to realise what, and who, the nightmare was about, and what was about to happen to him.
“No.”
“Simon—”
“No,” he insisted, more frantic, because he’d tolerate the other nightmares, he’d tolerate the memories, but he wouldn’t tolerate the way his brain would mix what little good he had in his life with monsters he had left dead— with renewed energy, he shoved back, twisting his wrists frantically in MacTavish’s grip as his eyes spilled over, heat rolling to his temples—
“Simon— c’mon, Simon, relax, relax—”
He gasped for air, the sound choked out, harsh, and ripped his wrist back with so much force it flew into the wall next to him— pain exploded from his knuckles, white hot and lancing up his arm, and only stoked the panic more, like petrol on a flame—
“Breathe,” MacTavish all but pleaded with him, as Ghost drove the heel of his hand into his chest to push him away over and over, curling it into a fist to shove into his shoulder, unable to get the leverage he needed where he was pressed to the mattress— “Simon, you’re safe, you’re alright, breathe— breathe—”
“Captain— sir,” he managed, as his free hand was caught in a vice grip and shoved down into the mattress— he looked up at him, eyes swimming, finally able to make out shapes in the dim half light, the way his pupils were dilated, the wide eyed way he was looking at him— “John— stop, don’t do this, don’t— don’t do this, I can’t— I don’t want this, sir— don’t— I—”
His chest was heaving, words stuttered and stammered as they spilled out of him— MacTavish said something, maybe to comfort or maybe to get him to be quiet, and he couldn’t hear it over the high pitched ringing in his ears, everything too big and too loud and too much, all at once—
“Simon— Simon, I’m not hurtin’ you,” MacTavish insisted, near desperation in his voice— “you’re safe, no one’s goin’ to hurt you, please—”
For a moment, the grip he had over his wrists faltered— and Ghost ripped his hands free, and struck. As hard as he could manage, he drove his elbow into jaw— at the same moment, he wrestled himself free, nearly falling over as he scrambled back. MacTavish stumbled back, caught himself on his feet, and looked up; before he could even consider what he was doing, Ghost dived for the bedside table, ripping up the alarm clock like he might have done a jawbone, wielding it like a weapon.
There was one heart-hammering moment of quiet. The bright green numbers, blinking in the night, reflected in MacTavish’s wide eyes, and where he had hit himself on the wall, his knuckles were throbbing.
“Alright,” he said, voice soft. Carefully, hesitantly, he reached a hand forward, hovering in the air between them— “alright. You’re okay.”
The bed felt like it was shaking under him; it took Ghost a moment to realise it was him, nearly shivering even where he was swathed in blankets. His chest was heaving like he had run a race, and when Soap moved to take the alarm clock off him, he inhaled jerkily, squeezing the plastic casing tighter— instead, then, he put a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, touch heavy and warm.
“You back with me?”
The numbers didn’t blink, but the two dots between the time did; Ghost could see it reflected in his eyes, as it blinked on and off in the night. The plastic wasn’t warm under his hands, but it wasn’t cold either— the scratch marks down his arm stung angrily, and it was that pain that seemed to ground him, forcing him to find his bearings in the room.
Not his room. MacTavish’s room, exactly as he had gone to sleep in twice before— even his work, where he had been steadily typing up a report, was abandoned exactly where it was.
Ghost swallowed, mouth dry, and lowered the alarm clock a bit. He was still shaking, and his skin felt clammy, and somehow too small for his bones— he felt like he was six again, covered in bruises and tears and inexcusably in trouble.
“Simon?”
He let out a shaky breath, and looked over to him.
Maybe he was still half in the nightmare, because it only really hit Ghost that he was awake when he met his eye. MacTavish was still looking at him, half alarmed and half concerned, eyebrows knitted and cheek marked with red—
“Oh, fuck.”
He put down the alarm clock and hurriedly shifted over, eyes widening as he realised what he had done—
“Ghost—”
Guilt opened like a hole in his chest, and Ghost nearly stumbled to his feet in his haste to get to him; MacTavish caught him, gently pushing him back to the bed as he got closer, Ghost pressing a shaking hand over the mark as Soap sat on his knees to be eye level—
“Shit— shit, I—”
“It’s fine— hey, Simon, it’s fine, it’s fine, come on—”
“I’m— fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Ghost,” MacTavish cut across him, more firm—he brought a hand over Ghost’s where it was still cupping his cheek, forcing his attention— “listen to me— it’s fine. It was an accident, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Ghost argued miserably, unable to help the note of frustration— because out of everyone, Ghost knew how much worse it was when trusted hands were the ones hurting— “it’s not fine, John.”
“I’ve hit you having nightmares before,” MacTavish replied, voice soft and so kind it had Ghost wanting to fight, “you know that it’s not your fault.”
He didn’t agree, but he still had the hand cupping his cheek, and for the first time, Ghost seemed to really notice the deep scratch marks into his own arms, shiny and red in the night. He blinked, and MacTavish followed his gaze to look down at them, letting his hand run down his arm to gently rub over them—
“Not got a clue what you were dreamin’ about, but I was worried you’d make yourself bleed,” MacTavish explained quietly; Ghost looked over them, and it was like he was finding new rock bottoms for how he felt, guilt giving way to embarrassment, shame, mortification, hot and bitter—
“I’m sorry,” Ghost whispered, and let go to press the heels of his hands into his eyes— “fucking Christ, I’m— fuck’s sake, I’m so sorry.”
In the absence of adrenaline, the reason he had passed out in MacTavish’s room in the first place came back. He was so exhausted he was frustrated with himself, and every part of him felt like it was made of lead— all his muscles felt spent, like he’d spent weeks on an op, and he pressed the heels of his hands in further, until he could see white and until the ache in his head rang in his ears.
Gently, hands tugged his from his face.
“This was a stupid fucking idea,” Ghost mumbled, holding his head still and closing his eyes to let MacTavish wipe his face with his knuckles. “I’ll— I can go.”
“I knew what I was getting into when you said your nightmares were bad, Simon,” MacTavish replied, letting his hands fall to his shoulders to keep him seated— “and you managed to sleep for nearly three hours uninterrupted.”
“I could have broken your jaw. Or worse. This isn’t— it’s not worth it,” Ghost insisted, clasping his hands in his lap— “not if I’m— not for this.”
“It’s worth it from where I’m sitting,” MacTavish frowned, looking up at him— “come on, you’ll kill yourself at this rate. When was the last time you managed three hours of sleep uninterrupted?”
Nearly two weeks, but he wouldn’t voice that. He kept his eyes downturned, glaring at his own hands in his lap—
“Come on, there’s still time. You can try for a bit more sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Simon—”
“I can’t,” Ghost insisted, and he couldn’t help the panicky edge that entered his voice— MacTavish blinked, eyebrows furrowing, but after several moments, relented.
“Okay,” he replied, like it was that easy. “Alright.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” MacTavish nodded, and reached up to wipe tears from his temples, wiping them into his hair. Ghost was still shaking; he was struck with the urge to hold onto MacTavish with both hands, like an anchor on a rocky sea. “You’re okay. C’mon, sit with me, work with me for a bit.”
MacTavish’s room wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small, either— it was built for one, really; one rickety bed, one desk, one little chair. Ghost ended up sat on the floor with his back to the drawers of the desk, despite MacTavish’s protests that it wouldn’t be comfortable— he had a pillow tucked behind him, and was close enough to MacTavish that his head was level with his knee and he could feel the heat radiating off of him. He was still exhausted, but sitting hp by sheer willpower; mercifully, the shaking had subsided, even if he still felt off kilter, and he had pulled on a thicker hoodie he had borrowed from MacTavish, the pressure easing the worst of the phantom pains and hiding the skin of his arms.
“Look at these blueprints,” MacTavish said, passing him a stack of papers. The golden light caught his beard, and just like Ghost, he was dressed down to sleep, clothes comfortable and soft. “I’ve marked off possible entry points in red, points to double check on the recce mission in blue. Tell me if I’m missing something.”
Ghost huffed a soft laugh as he took them, earning him a confused little look—
“What?”
“You really do enjoy doing the paperwork, don’t you?”
“And if I do?” MacTavish asked, lifting an eyebrow. Ghost just huffed a soft laugh, shifting the laptop on his lap to the floor to look down at the papers, and MacTavish’s knee nudged into his shoulder good-naturedly.
It wasn’t like Ghost wasn’t used to going without any real sleep. He spent most of the night awake, usually wandering around, and out of anyone, he probably knew sleep deprivation better than most; he was very well acquainted with spending days on end with never more than a few hours of restful sleep, alone on a mission and permanently on edge.
But thirteen days, never managing more than an hour of sleep was another thing. He didn’t even have the words to explain it, the building frustration with being unable to sleep as he watched the hours tick by, managing to sleep only to jerk awake at the slightest noise, movement, sound around him. The nightmares got worse the longer he went without sleep, following him into the day, making him snappy, irritable, borderline panicked for hours on end; he’d caved, gone to medical for a prescription for sleeping pills, and only learned he could be more exhausted and still manage to stay awake.
MacTavish had noticed because Ghost had taken to drinking coffee, as strong as he could conspicuously make it, to keep himself awake through the day— more alarmed by the fact Ghost was drinking anything without several sugars and milk in it, he’d been the one to suggest they just share a room until Ghost managed to go to sleep. Ghost, more relieved that he wouldn’t have to lie alone with his thoughts for hours more than anything, had agreed without really thinking about it.
“Find anything?” MacTavish asked, as Ghost blinked from his reverie. He wiped at his eyes, blinking down at the papers—
“Looks okay. Unless there’s any foxholes under the fence.”
“Doesn’t look like from aerial, but I’ll mark it down,” MacTavish replied, holding out a hand for the papers; it took Ghost a second to realise he wanted them back. And that was another thing he hated about the sleep exhaustion, the way his reflexes would only sharpen under adrenaline— but MacTavish huffed a soft sort of laugh, running a hand through his hair, and Ghost went still. He didn’t even wait to look for his reaction, scrawling several words on the paper as Ghost remembered to pick up his laptop— he’d only managed about three lines into the operational summary for the week, the white of the document glaring at him.
“You know it’s my sisters’ birthday this week?” MacTavish began conversationally, as Ghost heard more letters typed up.
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Two of ‘em. Caro and Tee. Technically they’ve got different birthdays, but they celebrate Tee’s because they’re both just like that.”
“What, midnight for both of them?” Ghost asked, blinking up at him.
“2358 and five minutes past midnight,” MacTavish replied easily. “I’ve got a birthday phone call scheduled.”
“How old are they turning?” Ghost asked, more to keep Soap talking than anything. It wasn’t often that he divulged much about his family— out of the two of them, Ghost was easily more talkative, but late at night and when it was just the two of them, he liked the sound of his voice.
“I don’t even know. Eight years older than me, so, what, forty-three? Don’t look at me like that,” he scowled immediately; Ghost bit his lip to stifle the smile, looking back down to his screen. “Always the same bloody joke with you.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You didn’t need to. I can see it off your face.”
Ghost scoffed softly, turning back to his screen and leaning back against the desk. They lapsed into silence, unimposing and companionable— all the same, though, Ghost found himself wrapping a hand around MacTavish’s ankle, squeezing gently to get his attention.
“Hm?”
“Keep going.”
“About what?”
“Anything,” Ghost replied, looking up at him. “Your sisters. The bloody humvee recertifications you’re doing. I don’t care.”
MacTavish shot him an amused look at that, one Ghost was truthfully too tired to decipher; he reached over and ran a hand through his hair again, Ghost leaning to one side to let him.
“Alright— uh, shit. Let me think of something. You’re the only person who ever asks me to talk, you know that?”
“Find that hard to believe,” Ghost replied, looking up at him.
“Used to get told to stop talkin’ all the time as a kid. Wouldn’t stop going on.”
“That’s fucking stupid. I like it when you go on about things.”
MacTavish blinked, like he’d said something strange, and then in a surprisingly shy movement, looked away to scratch at his beard, stifling a smile.
“Well— alright. Alright, then. Two weeks of no sleep’s catchin’ up to you.”
“You’re telling me,” Ghost agreed tiredly, scrubbing at heavy eyes again. The drawers dug in through the pillow into his back, the laptop whining in his lap.
“Does it—,” MacTavish’s voice was careful, and he didn’t return to his work to keep looking at him, “has it gotten this bad before?”
“Longest I’ve ever been like this was— two months,” Ghost replied, and had to stifle the yawn into the crook of his elbow— “but that wasn’t— that was on purpose.”
“You purposely didn’t sleep a full night in two months?”
“No— no, I wasn’t allowed. They kept me up on purpose,” Ghost explained, typing up more of the operational summary before he became a bit too aware of the quiet; he looked up at MacTavish, who looked back down at him, slightly alarmed in the lamplight.
He knew it was a normal response— the level at which Ghost had come to accept what had happened to him as normal was unnerving to anyone else. It had worked, as he remembered, forcing him to stay awake until he was physically passing out and allowing him the hour or so before waking him up again, ice water or tasers or simply beating him awake; it didn’t stop the small curl of embarrassment in his chest as he looked at his expression, the marks on his arms itching uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” Ghost mumbled, before he could stop himself. And then, when MacTavish opened his mouth to say something— “shouldn’t’ve— brought it up.”
A thick moment of quiet followed, enough to make Ghost want to squirm. His eyes felt heavy, and he kept them purposefully averted, eyes on the swimming screen of the laptop as it warmed in his lap.
He didn’t wince when MacTavish ran a hand through his hair again, but he felt fingernails brush over his scalp and wished, like a physical ache, that he knew how to stop bracing for it like it would hurt.
“I like the paperwork,” MacTavish told him, “because— because I like the details. I like knowing everything— all the points of entry, the floorplans, the date of the last vehicle recertifications— everything.”
“It’ll put you off,” Ghost replied softly, and leaned over to knock his head into his knee, resting his weight against his leg. “Knowing that much.”
“If it does, that’s my problem,” MacTavish shrugged, and ran his hand through his hair again, curling a finger around a lock of hair. Unable to help himself, Ghost huffed a soft laugh, letting his eyes drift shut—
“What’re you doing?”
“What?”
“With— with my hair,” Ghost explained, opening his eyes to look at him; MacTavish’s eyebrows furrowed, lips quirking, “what’s this?”
“What, you’ve never had anyone play with your hair?” He asked, brushing his hand through it again— Ghost blinked, a hand wrapping around his ankle loosely.
“Dunno. Don’t think so.”
“Not even when you were a kid?” MacTavish asked, although his tone was light. Ghost blinked blearily, brushing his cheek against the soft fabric of his sweats as he looked away—
“Maybe,” Ghost shrugged, sighing and leaning more of his weight against him. His hand combed through soft hair, an arc over the side of his cheek. “Was probably too young to remember.”
The laptop was slipping out of his lap where he was leaning heavily to one side; it took him several moments to realise it was because he was nodding off. Ghost shook himself minutely, forcing himself awake, but MacTavish held his head steadily against him, messing with the soft ends of his hair, and Ghost kept still.
“The nightmare— this nightmare,” Ghost began, the honesty twisting up his throat in its unfamiliarity; he willed his voice level, squeezing his hand tighter around his ankle, “it was— maggots. Just the way they move, and I— I can feel them under my skin— and— I always lie still for as long as I can,” Ghost shut his eyes, pressing himself further into him, “but then I can’t— I can’t deal with them— touching me anymore. I have to— I had to get them off.”
He hated the way he stumbled over his words, hated the stammer in his voice and the way the scratch marks up his arms stung like physical evidence of his weakness— but like a reward for his honesty, Soap brushed his hand through his hair again, twisting a strand of hair between his fingers just to flatten it out. Ghost all but melted under him, loosely wrapping an arm around his calf. Where he had hit him hadn’t yet formed a bruise, hidden in his beard; before he could ask if it hurt, though—
“Simon?”
“Mh?”
“You know I—” MacTavish began, before he hesitated; Ghost swore he could hear the bob in his throat, “you know I wouldn’t hurt you, though, don’t you?”
“Course I do,” Ghost frowned, looking up at him; sleep softened the edges of his vision, and caught the golden highlights of MacTavish’s eyes.
“Yeah— good. That’s good,” he replied, and then, with a soft huff, leant over to pick up the laptop off the floor for him. Ghost made a short noise of discontent, but didn’t quite manage to pick himself up off of him—
“Leave it, ‘m gonna work.”
“Sure you are,” MacTavish replied, softly amused as he snapped the laptop shut and put it away— “s’alright. Just lay there for a bit. Wrote up the operational report yesterday, I was only looking for an excuse to keep you here.”
Ghost didn’t even have the energy to gape at him, or even look disbelievingly up at him; he scowled at nothing, more so when MacTavish chuckled at his expense.
He couldn’t bring himself to properly close his eyes, too on guard to rest— but each blink seemed to linger, and the way Soap kept running his hand through his hair wasn’t helping, either.
“You can try for a bit more sleep,” MacTavish said again, as Ghost’s shoulders sunk, head lolling against him. “Still got time.”
“‘Ll have another nightmare,” Ghost mumbled, by way of response. “I— I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll be here,” he reminded him, “I’ll keep talking to you, I’ll stay here. Even if you have another.”
“You’ll keep,” Ghost began, hesitating, “you’ll keep doing the— the hair thing?”
There was a moment of quiet, long enough that Ghost had to blink and look up— any fear of being mocked disappeared, though, when MacTavish was already looking down at him, that same soft expression just for him, gentle and achingly tender.
“Whatever you want,” MacTavish replied, and Ghost swallowed the way his heart was beating in his throat, “sweetheart.”
He laughed softly, unable to help himself; Soap ran a hand gently over his cheek, before replacing the hand in his hair, pushing his hair back.
“What’re your sisters doing for their birthdays, then?” Ghost asked tiredly, as sleep wrapped around him like a hug— and he couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t scared about what he was going to dream about, the last time he had managed to sleep so soundly somewhere so uncomfortable, but MacTavish twisted another strand of hair around his finger, and Ghost wasn’t thinking of anything at all.
“My oldest sister— Maureen,” MacTavish began, as Ghost’s grip around his calf slipped— “she always plans these sorts of things. I think they’re having a celebration together at her house, and…”
“I like your voice,” Ghost confessed, exhausted, as his eyes drifted shut to the soft sound of MacTavish, voice a dull thrum echoing around— “I like the way you sound.”