Chapter Text
There was a fine line between earnest curiosity and borderline intrusion about what was under the mask.
MacTavish, standing by the one-sided glass of the interrogation room, supposed he didn’t appreciate enough the fact that there was no one alive who knew Ghost as well as he did.
Whether he admitted it or not, there was a near tactical strategy to the way Ghost handed pieces of himself out in order to stay legally dead. Superior officers would get a last name and a rank, written in a blacked out personnel file. Medics would get his face if it was absolutely unavoidable, and a rank to call him by, a name if he liked them. Fellow teammates would get a callsign and a last name, and long periods of unexplained absence that Ghost was far too prickly to explain. Anyone else was lucky to get the callsign, luckier still to see the pale white mask in the dark and live to tell the tale.
So Ghost had done it slowly, carefully, testing each footstep like a cat in the snow— Soap would get a mumbled story about his family, a reference to a different life, one of the layers of fabric he wore pulled off nearly casually, a story about a scar, his eyes, his face, the scarred expanse of his body when he was too tired to tug on a shirt and too hypervigilant to not still be tracking every miniscule movement of MacTavish’s hands. And he had taken each one in stride, of course, too grateful to do anything except guard it all with the same trust that Ghost had given him— but, he supposed, he had never considered the magnitude of what it meant to be the only person alive to know Simon Riley in the face of the absolute curiosity of their joint American team.
Mock interrogations were a staple of RTI training. In formal settings like selection, there would never be anything like one way glass, but in known training exercises, it served more than one purpose— it was a motivator for soldiers with big egos to see if they would be strong enough to withstand the time limit, and a reminder to everyone watching that even walking in prepared, expectant, and in front of brothers-in-arms, real interrogations had the capacity to break.
Traditionally, there was only a handful of people behind the glass— however, seven Delta force members, and four members of the 141, MacTavish included, had come to watch the show. It would either end one of two ways. Ghost would call for the umpire, calling off the entire interrogation where he decided it was too much, or he would somehow last the entire two hours, which the three interrogators themselves had assured the twelve of them was incredibly unlikely.
“Since the start of this course, it’s been, what, four people who’ve lasted until the bleep?” The first, Wilson, had told the group of them gathered— “nine or ten years, now.”
“Who were they?” Roach had asked, curious— despite the slight friction between the 141 and the Delta force team, it had been a learning opportunity as well as a practical deployment, helping out in the hot zone of a fight against a hostile organisation between their training exercises.
“Well,” Wilson replied, with a casual shrug that suggested he was used to the question, “that’s me, Turk, and Martinez.”
With each name, he gave a casual jerk of his head towards the respective person, standing left and right of him— Roach tilted his head slightly, eyebrows furrowing.
“That’s three.”
“We don’t count the fourth guy,” Martinez replied. “He only lasted the full two hours because he passed out halfway through.”
It was with that that Ghost had volunteered, half smiling, to be the fifth— and it occurred to MacTavish, as he was marched into the room and had his hands cuffed behind him on the chair, that MacTavish was one of the few people who knew exactly how much mettle hid behind the false bravado.
There were two rules MacTavish had given, leading him in— they could do whatever they deemed necessary, but his clothes would never be taken off, and under no circumstances whatsoever was were they to show his face.
“This is for your safety,” MacTavish had insisted to the three of them, where Ghost couldn’t hear him, “more than it is for his.”
So he’d taken his place by the glass, Major Hopkins by his right, a black haired man who had intense blue eyes that followed everything— his task force was nearly as secretive as the 141, and given their skill in interrogations and intelligence, it wasn’t a massive wonder as to why. The interrogation room was plain— one chair, grey bricks, and a black, scuffed floor illuminated by one yellow light.
“Relax, captain,” Hopkins had chuckled, when he noticed the vice grip MacTavish was holding his own upper arm in as the interrogation began— “my men aren’t going to do anything permanent.”
“Alright,” Martinez began, and both of their eyes snapped over— he grabbed Ghost by the chin to drag his head back at a harsh angle, forcing him to look him in the eye. “You sure about this, lieutenant?”
The question was technically genuine— even then, Ghost still could have called off the interrogation, left with nothing but his pride wounded. But there was a small huff of laughter, a wry crinkle of his eyes even like that—
“Ghost,” he provided, in lieu of the name-rank-badge number they were all trained to recite in an interrogation— “lieutenant. No further information to disclose.”
Martinez huffed the same dry laugh, and let go of his face.
“Whatever you want, Ghost.”
The clock began ticking as Martinez’s knuckles slammed directly into Ghost’s cheekbone hard enough to send his sunglasses clattering across the floor.
It definitely wasn’t the first time it happened, but perhaps Soap only noticed it for the first time on the initial mission with the new team, six weeks earlier.
“That’s grim, sir,” Ghost had commented from where he was leaning against a wall in the LV point— MacTavish, who had been wiping the blades of his good knives clear on his trousers where he was sat down waiting, looked up at him to glare. “Even for you.”
It was a simple kill-or-capture, start to finish only nine hours in all— they’d left the target dead, confirmed the kill, and trekked back through the forest under the cover of night to the clearing that made up the LV point, the six of them tired, but not hurt. The night was dark, a new moon hanging above them between the trees— the low building by the LV point, abandoned and empty, and they were lounging about against the outer wall, waiting for the heli out.
“This pair’s goin’ in the bin, anyway,” MacTavish replied, running the flat of the blade against the denim again before holstering it and taking out a new blade. “No chance I’m getting out the blood. Might as well.”
“Soap and cold water,” Ghost shot back, crossing his arms carelessly as the other soldiers waiting with them chose between listening to them or continuing to mill about aimlessly as they waited; and then, cheekily— “figured you’d know that one, sir.”
“Comedian, you are.”
“S’not a good look, is all I’m saying,” Ghost replied sniffily, uncrossing his arms to tuck his thumbs into his vest.
“Aye, comin’ from you, Riley. You look like you’ve just walked off those recruitment posters.”
“Don’t I just,” Ghost agreed, grinning under the skull mask. “Think I’d scare ‘em off more than anything.”
“You kidding?” MacTavish asked, lifting an eyebrow as he looked up at him. “You’re here makin’ the rest of us look bad, lieutenant.”
Even in the dim light of the LV site, he got to watch Ghost blink, and then cross his arms defensively over his chest again, looking away. It earned several amused looks from the surrounding officer, Scarecrow huffing a laugh as Roach glanced up—
“Funny, sir,” Ghost replied drily, and even with the glasses and the mask, he could practically imagine the pink creeping up his cheeks— “really funny.”
“Who says I’m joking?” MacTavish asked, holstering the knife on his vest— “what d’you think I let you get away with all that insubordination for?”
“Sod off, sir,” Ghost grumbled, sulking against the wall— something about it made MacTavish’s chest feel light, and in an uncharacteristically lighthearted move, he huffed a laugh and sat back.
“There you are. Now you can bat your eyelashes at me and I can forget you said that.”
Ghost snorted, and immediately made to snap back a reply— but at that moment, one of the American lieutenants, a man with pale brown hair and a permanent 5 o’clock shadow, chuckled a laugh. Both Soap and Ghost stopped laughing immediately, humour dissipating in an instant, as Soap turned to glare—
“Somethin’ to say, Green?”
“Ah— no,” he replied, “no sir. I— just didn’t know you’d seen the lieutenant’s face, captain.”
“Who the fuck says he has?” Ghost snapped back, glaring at him. Green wilted, and became very busy fiddling with the straps of his vest. Ghost huffed, scowling as he looked away; MacTavish sat back and huffed a laugh, knocking a good natured leg into Ghost’s.
“Can’t blame the lad, Ghost,” he shrugged, “you do love a good bit of mystery.”
“That’s true,” Roach chimed in, before catching Ghost’s eye— “solid copy, sir, I’m shutting up.”
“Must keep the ladies guessing,” Scarecrow guessed with a wink. Ghost rolled his eyes, but seemed barely more amiable to the teasing when it was coming from the 141–
“No one alive’s seen my face.”
“Mask stays on in the bedroom?” Another American soldier, a sergeant who was standing with crossed arms, guessed with a lifted eyebrow—
“Well, I don’t want to scare ‘em away, now, do I?”
“Surely someone alive’s seen it,” Green replied, recovered from his momentary quiet and crossing his arms. “You’re telling me not one person on your entire task force’s seen your face? How’d they even know who you are?”
“They don’t,” Ghost replied, glaring at him. A thick moment of quiet followed that, the tension palpable as Ghost’s glower turned venomous on him— “got a problem with that, Green?”
Green was rescued from replying with the incoming sound of spinning rotor blades.
The fourth hit to the stomach finally earned them a wheezed out groan as Ghost doubled over as best he could against the hit. They hadn’t cuffed him to the chair, only pinned his arms behind it where the back was too broad to get himself free— Soap knew, having been on enough of the courses himself, it was somehow worse than being fully restrained, the awareness that freedom was right there. Turk and Wilson stayed crowded in his space, while Martinez stayed off to one side, apparently regarding the handful of weapons they had left in Ghost’s line of sight. It was far more likely they were there to scare him rather than be used, but Soap watched the glimmer of a knife as it was lifted up, and had to school his expression back to calm.
“Ghost,” he gasped out, as Turk took a fist of the mask by the back of his head to drag him upright— the glasses had been removed, so that the starts of the bright red bruise on his cheekbone were visible under his eye— “lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
“Not too late to tap out, Ghost,” Wilson reminded him, a snarl of a smile on his face— a drop of blood had rolled down Ghost’s forehead, visible where it stuck in his eyebrow. Instead of the trained indifference, though, what was visible of Ghost’s face spread into a smile in earnest, a chuckle bubbling from nowhere—
“Careful, else I might start thinking you’re scared to be in here with me.”
The open palmed strike from Turk seemed to catch them all off guard, even in the room. Roach blinked at the glass, shocked, and Ozone’s eyes flickered to the other Delta force soldiers watching, a mixture of surprise and near amusement in their expressions. Ghost’s head had snapped to the right with the impact, breath catching in his chest in a way that had MacTavish’s stomach twisting, but Martinez dragged him back by the collar, crowding into his space with a knife he had taken from the side—
“You think this is a game, fucker?”
“What’s the matter,” Ghost replied, tilting his head sardonically, and they could all hear the slight slur in his words where he had taken the hit to the jaw, “upset because I’m winning?”
“Your Ghost’s got a problem with antagonising his interrogators,” Hopkins pointed out to MacTavish, voice quiet. “He’s not going to last long like this.”
“S’only been forty-five minutes,” MacTavish replied, as Ghost tanked another hit to the stomach. “More concerned that he won’t tap out until the two hours are up.”
With a little glance behind him, he found eleven of them crowded in the small room, eyes bright and curious, to see Ghost come apart. Some of the Delta force team were nearly smiling, watching their own teammates shake the unmovable force that was Ghost— Soap watched Scarecrow glower at one of their sergeants until the smirk on his face disappeared.
Forty-six minutes, according to the clock. It felt like there were hours left.
Maybe it wasn’t the mission. Maybe it wasn’t the fact that Ghost kept it on on the operations, so much as peacetime.
The bar had been a sticky, small place, and they’d been dragged to it three and a half weeks earlier. If MacTavish was entirely honest, the sheen on the deep oak bar seemed more years of accumulated cigarette smoke than anything else, and the same brown smoke clung to everything in the building— despite historically avoiding those sorts of gatherings, in the interest of building bridges and maybe dissipating some of the tension where the teams kept rubbing each other the wrong way, he’d offered to go out with them.
As it stood, though, MacTavish had had enough to have the bar spinning around him and his skin suitably buzzing— sat by the bar, he drained his glass, before glaring at his phone and standing unsteadily on his feet.
“Hope you’re not planning on driving like that, sir,” one of their officers commented goodnaturedly, swivelling around in his barstool to watch MacTavish’s glare at his phone, hitting the call button again.
“Got a ride, lieutenant,” he waved him off, as the call rang. “Worry about yerself.”
“Surely not— what’s-her-name, Diver?” He joked in response, laughing loudly at his own joke— MacTavish felt himself scowl, but unwilling and too drunk to bother deciphering the words, he threw whatever change he had left in his pockets.
However, at that moment—
“Fuck’s that s’posed to mean, Frye?”
“There you are,” he commented grumpily, hanging up as Ghost seemed to materialise through the crowds— Ghost’s eyes were fixed on Frye’s, though, scowl dangerous.
“S’only a joke,” Frye replied, beer sloshing in the bottle as he lifted it carelessly. He paused, and seemed to take in Ghost fully— in the night, he had foregone the glasses and opted for fingerless gloves and a plain mask, but he was still very much anonymous; Frye’s eyes narrowed, and something a bit crueler than bemusement crawled over his expression.
“She’s a heavy vehicles operator,” Ghost replied, and MacTavish was close enough to hear the way his lips were pulled back, eyes narrowed, “so exactly what the fuck are you on about?”
Frye’s eyes flickered between Ghost, and then MacTavish— he lifted the bottle back to his lips, and looked away.
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ghost snarled back, lifting MacTavish’s arm over his shoulder to shoulder through the crowd and drag him out. The cold air was like a balm on his face— MacTavish hadn’t realised how much he had had to drink until Ghost pulled them outside; his legs felt like lead, like the pavement was swaying under his feet.
“How is it,” Ghost began grouchily, pulling his arm to keep him upright, “that you only go out twice a year, and you always manage to get too sloshed to walk?”
“S’good for morale,” MacTavish replied, leaning more of his weight against him— the streetlights were a deep yellow as they walked up the
“Explain to me exactly how it’s good for morale to drink by yourself for three hours before getting me to come get you?”
“Wasn’t alone, was I?” MacTavish grinned, unsure of why exactly it was so funny to watch Ghost scowl— “got you runnin’ in after me. S’only way I can convince you to come out with the rest of us.”
It earned him a snorted laugh from Ghost, hidden behind his mask and a loose fist—
“There’s nothing you could do to convince me to go out with the 141– let alone them lot,” Ghost added, apparently unable to help the little note of disdain. “Jesus Christ, I dunno how you managed to sit next to Frye all night. Thought I was going to choke on all the deodorant.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Like there are no showers on base,” Ghost scowled, shaking his head incredulously as he took the right into the street that led directly to the barracks they were stationed on— Ghost seemed to consider it further, nose crinkling in apparent disgust as he pulled him along— “can’t stand his little rat face.”
The laugh that it earned from MacTavish bubbled out of nowhere, loud and ringing in the night— he stopped walking, shaking Ghost’s shoulder affectionately as he looked at him, bemused—
“You look like a cat when you get mad, y’know that?” MacTavish laughed, gripping his face and giving it an affectionate shake— “like a— cute cat. A kitten.”
“What—,” Ghost spluttered, batting him off and blinking incredulously at him— “what?”
“You heard me. Like— like Lady, you know?”
“You’re drunk,” Ghost brushed him off, glower not quite hiding the fluster in his voice—
“And you,” MacTavish replied, as Ghost, pink flush visible even in the dark, “can’t take a compliment.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Ghost insisted, yanking his arm to get him to keep walking, “you’re just pissed.”
“Mm-hmm,” MacTavish agreed, grinning in earnest, “gettin’ shy on me, Simon. S’cute,” he said again, more to watch Ghost flare more than anything—
“How come you never drink enough to black out?” Ghost demanded, glaring furiously at him. “Think this would be a lot more fun for the both of us if you weren’t talking.”
MacTavish laughed again, warm like Scotch and far sweeter; Ghost’s glare softened, but he rolled his eyes and readjusted his arm over his shoulders to keep him walking.
“Not got a bloody clue what you’re saying,” Ghost muttered, more to himself than MacTavish; his heart did a ridiculous flip in his chest as Ghost got his other arm around his waist, taking more of his weight.
The waterboarding dragged Soap firmly back to the present.
It was tactical. He knew it was tactical. If anything, it was clever; Ghost would sooner call for the umpire than take off the mask, but he would suffocate with the water unless he took it off— but MacTavish’s arm was going numb with how tightly he was gripping his own bicep, as they forced Ghost’s head down into the water, again, and again, and again—
“Ready to give it up?” Martinez snarled, dragging Ghost up by the collar— the mask caught on every inhale as Ghost gasped and spluttered for breath, chest heaving jerkily as he squeezed his eyes shut— “just say the word and that’s it, this is over, it’s all you have to do to make it stop—”
“Fuck you,” Ghost spat, gritted teeth audible under the mask— he was suffocating, breath coming faster and faster— “fuck you—”
“One word— one word, that’s it,” Wilson repeated, forcing himself into his space as a hand squeezed threateningly around the back of his neck; Ghost bucked angrily against it, enough to make the chair rock—
“Ghost— lieutenant— no further disclosure—”
They forced his head back in the water before Ghost ever had the chance to catch his breath.
“They’re drowning him,” Scarecrow murmured, and MacTavish nearly jumped where he hadn’t realised he had sidled up next to him, right against the class— “we can— there’s safety protocols here, right?” He asked MacTavish, eyebrows furrowed and jaw tense— Ghost wrestled back in the water, shoulders shaking as he twisted and writhed— “I mean, sir— they’re drowning him.”
“They’re experts,” MacTavish replied, as much for Scarecrow as himself, “they won’t push it too far.”
“You think we’re going to stop this before you’re fucking dead, Ghost?” Turk snarled, as they dragged Ghost upright from the water— Ghost’s eyes flew open wide, and he was hyperventilating in earnest, gasping and choking for air; his mask was sticking to his face in a way that even looked claustrophobic, pink tinged rivulets of water dripping from his eyelashes and his mask as he thrashed, choking for air—
“End this,” Turk hissed into his ear, and Ghost’s eyes squeezed shut, turning away from the sound— he grabbed his face and physically dragged him back around to face him, and MacTavish’s knuckles were white knuckled around his arm as Ghost’s eyes suddenly seemed wide, scared— “end this, now—”
“Riley,” Ghost gritted out, between harsh gasps of air, “sergeant major, one-four-three—”
Ghost caught himself before he managed the badge number, visibly biting down his cheek, but the silence that fell— not just over the interrogation room, but over the observation room, too— was palpable.
Ghost stayed legally dead because he withheld so much of himself, details that made him a person instead of an asset, like state secrets. The name and the badge number were dangerous enough, but the rank—
It occurred to MacTavish that he was the only person there who even had an inkling that Ghost had been in Mexico, let alone what happened there.
“Listen,” he began, turning to Hopkins, “maybe we should call this off—”
“Do you trust him?” Hopkins replied, turning to him. MacTavish blinked, and then glanced at the clock— one hour, twenty-one minutes. He glanced back at Ghost, and for a second, Ghost glanced at the glass, and their eyes met— like he could see him, Ghost shook his head minutely, and rolled his shoulders as best he could where he was still cuffed.
“My men spend their days doing this,” Hopkins said; it was obvious, by his tone, that reassurance wasn’t something he was used to, “and it’s highly irregular for us to interrupt in the middle. If he wants it to stop—”
“He can call it,” MacTavish finished, shaking his head and looking back at Ghost, breathing slowing as his mask dried, and regular with the forced inhale-exhale pattern they were all trained in. His eyes followed the three of them as they walked around the room, but the bucket of water was dragged back, kicked away— and instead, they stayed in silence as they walked around.
It was another way to psych him out. The silence after a slip up, letting shame, anxiety, panic fester— but Ghost took a long deep breath and appeared to centre himself, rolling his shoulders again, tensing, and then relaxing.
“Ghost,” he said instead, voice steady and clear in the closed space. “Lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
“It’d be easier if you stopped, Riley,” Wilson pointed out, leaning against the door. Ghost’s eyes flickered over to him, and he seemed to regard him for a second, tilting his head minutely.
No one said anything for a moment; Scarecrow was still standing beside him, very still. Ghost’s chest was still rising and falling heavily, hoodie a dark shade of grey where it was wet.
One word, and Ghost could call it off. A hush of expectation had fallen over everyone.
“Ghost,” he said again, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were firmly forward, giving nothing away. “Lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
Maybe the earlier instances were bound to happen; maybe, it had really begun on that botched training exercise, only two weeks before.
It was an endurance course, and the fact the sky seemed to have split to let a year of rain onto the muddy fields was only encouragement for their men to be forced outside to race through sliding mud. Again and again, first as individuals, and then as a team— it was no one person’s fault, but everyone was coated in mud to the shoulders and could hardly catch their breath in the rain—
“Royce!” MacTavish barked over the field, as for the third time, he slipped in the mud, bringing his entire squad to a halt, “just— stop, all of you, leave the course— you wouldn’t leave a man behind in the field— fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, with a half glance at Hopkins, who was standing by him and watching the frustration with which the rest of the team stopped, turned, and marched over to pull him upright. Sandman got there first, hauled him up by the arm and brushed off the mud across his shoulder— it was too quiet to hear their voices, though, but the agitation with which one of the Delta Force sergeants stalked over was practically visible.
“That’s not good,” Hopkins muttered, before he began walking over himself— MacTavish was right behind him, and even over the rain, they could hear the raised voices as they approached—
“—in a desert or something,” the sergeant, Newman, was saying, “but Jesus Christ, have you never ran one of these courses in the rain—?”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“Royce?”
“Say that again—,” Royce demanded, and Ghost got there before the two of them, jogging over just in time to stop Royce physically lunging at the sergeant, “say that again, you asshole—”
“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” Ghost’s voice was just audible as they rushed over, as he shoved into Royce’s chest, “he’s not worth it, Royce—”
“You need to watch your fucking mouth, Newman,” Sandman gritted out, voice forcefully even—
“—say that to me again, say it to my face—”
“Some fucking pair you two make,” Newman laughed derisively at Ghost and Royce, back turned to MacTavish and Hopkins as they approached, “you and him in his fucking tactical burka— bet that makes you feel right at home, eh?”
“Sergeant—”
“Remind you of your fucking wife, the way she’s ugly as fuck under there, too—?”
Royce’s face darkened viciously, and it was only pure luck that Hopkins had arrived before MacTavish, because he dragged Newman back before Royce managed to do anything, wheeling him around. With some small satisfaction, MacTavish watched the way the colour drained from his face—
“You. My office. Now.”
“The rest of you are dismissed,” MacTavish called out to the rest of them— “Royce, Sandman, Ghost, stay here, though.”
The rain was still coming down in sheets; Royce’s hair was plastered to his forehead, and Sandman kept wiping at his forehead, frustrated. Ghost himself was chewing furiously on the inside of his cheek, shoulders squared and arms crossed.
“Royce,” MacTavish began, as soon as the last of the men walked off— frustrated, Royce shook off where Sandman still had a hand on his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t’ve stopped me,” he said, to Ghost instead of MacTavish.
“And what, let you get a disciplinary over that prick?”
“Someone needs to clock that fucker in the mouth.”
“Sergeant,” MacTavish cut across him, voice testing. Royce turned back to him, lip curled— “I get that you’re frustrated—”
“Respectfully, captain, you don’t get it,” Royce shot back, squaring his shoulders. “I’m as qualified as any of them— no, fuck that, I’m better than them, but because where I trained, where I’m from—”
He cut himself off, scoffing with a shake of his head. His hands were curled in fists, breathing hard— Sandman was still watching him, and Ghost’s arms stayed crossed across his chest.
“You don’t get it, sir,” Royce said again, minutely calmer. “You can’t get it. And I’ve got,” he gestured vaguely for a second, visibly looking for an excuse, “something— work, inside—”
“You’re dismissed, sergeant.”
With a nod, Royce took the out for what it was, taking long strides over the grass— Sandman only waited a few moments before shooting them both an apologetic look and following him, kicking up wet tufts of grass as he jogged to follow.
It left him and Ghost standing across from each other in the pouring rain. It drummed against the wet mud, against Ghost’s jacket and MacTavish’s raincoat— Ghost huffed, letting out some modicum of anger, before his shoulders barely relaxed.
“Pricks. All of them.”
“Not that it’s any of Newman’s business,” MacTavish began, as Ghost glanced up at him, “but he has no fucking clue how off the mark he was.”
“Course not,” Ghost agreed, nearly confused—
“Not just about Royce. About the mask.”
Ghost blinked, before, to MacTavish surprise, a bemused laugh seemed to escape him—
“Whatever you say, sir,” he shrugged him off, crossing his arms over his chest tighter and looking away. “Let’s go inside, my socks are all wet.”
There was a rule to interrogations, and that was under no circumstances could you ease off once you had started applying pressure. They could go at different angles, use different tactics, but the moment the person being interrogated got the impression that they were losing steam, that there was a chance for them if they just lasted a little longer, the interrogation was as good as over. Ghost must have known it, and so would everyone else still in the room; but it meant that none of them would be able to see it for what it was.
The three of them weren’t applying more pressure. They were getting desperate.
It was getting to the 117th minute of the mock interrogation, and Ghost, shaking, bruised, slashed up and so tense it looked physically painful, was still going, eyes dark and venomous.
“You’re shaking, Riley, how much longer d’you think you can do this? You can’t even sit still. You can’t do this. Call it.”
“Ghost, lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
“Everyone can see you,” Martinez replied, with a little glance at the glass— “everyone’s watching, and they’re going to watch you break, too.”
“Ghost. Lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
“No rules in here for us,” Martinez pointed out, with carelessly leaning against the wall. “What, you think the umpire’s gonna come in and stop us in time? We’ve got free rein in here. Nothing stops until you break.”
Ghost didn’t reply, scoffing; Turk placed a hand on his shoulder, a thin curl of a smile twisting on his face as Ghost instinctively pulled away.
“Wonder what it would take to get the rest of that badge number out of you,” Turk prodded, his hand squeezing his shoulder in a parody of kindness, “wonder what it would take to get you to beg—”
It wasn’t a huff of amusement, so much as a peal of laughter, bright like a flashbang and sharp like shrapnel— Ghost’s shoulders shook with it, eyes crinkled with mirth as the sound rang through the intercom in the closed space—
“You think that’s fucking funny?”
“I think,” Ghost grinned, smile audible in his voice, “you’re full of shit, Turk.”
“You know what I think? I think you’re a fucking coward,” Turk hissed, boring into his space— “all that posturing, all the backtalk, all of it’s to hide that you’re a fucking coward, through and through.”
“Yeah?”
“You hide your face from your own teammates because you’re such a pussy. Dunno if you think you’re better than us, if you don’t trust us, if you’re just fuck-ugly—”
“You know— the rules only say we can’t show your face to them lot,” Wilson pointed out, out of the blue. “Not that we can’t take off the mask.”
What little conversation that had been happening suddenly disappeared, leaving it very quiet.
They were bluffing, was MacTavish’s immediate thought. It was obvious they were bluffing. It was the last minute of the interrogation— they were just getting desperate, it was a bluff.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed.
It went almost too fast to follow. Martinez dragged the chair around, so that Ghost was facing opposite to the window— Turk grabbed a fistful of his collar as he threatened to writhe away, and with an awful twist of his stomach, MacTavish watched the way Ghost clasped one hand in the other, still handcuffed behind him, as if he was trying to keep himself calm—
“Last chance, Ghost,” Wilson told him, as Martinez’s fingers slipped under the hem of his mask. “Call it. Call it off. Everyone’s going to see you.”
“It’s a bluff,” MacTavish muttered, as if he was reminding himself. “They’re bluffing.”
“Ghost,” he snarled, tilting his head up defiantly. “Lieutenant. No further disclosure.”
Everyone in the room had stopped to watch. Hopkins was by his side, eyes narrow and arms folded as he watched, jaw working— Ozone looked livid, Scarecrow looked murderous, and Roach looked like he genuinely didn’t believe what was about to happen.
It was nearly anticlimactic, the way it was ripped off and dropped to the floor. Turk gripped his face, forced him to look them in the eye—
“Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, and sounded genuinely horrified, “what the fuck happened to you?”
The next several things happened in rapid succession.
Where MacTavish had assumed Ghost was gripping his own hands out of fear, the real reason became immediately obvious. The second the mask was pulled off, he gripped his hand, and with a sudden flex of his wrist there was an audible crunch as he dislocated his own thumb— he ripped his hand free of the cuffs, threw his arm back, and just as his fist made contact with Turk’s jaw—
The lights went on so fast that MacTavish was caught off guard by his own expression, wide eyed and shocked— it was nearly comical, the way the sounds continued to come through the intercom— Turk’s yelp of pain, Martinez’s shock turning anger before the impact of something kicking something, hard, the sound of Wilson’s voice, trying to calm, before the unmistakable racket of a chair being thrown—
Hopkins, who had slammed the lights just in time, had all but dived for the door; MacTavish was right on his heels as he swiped his keycard, flashing red, then red, then finally, green—
MacTavish shouldered his way through into the room first, and he didn’t immediately realise it wasn’t so much to get to Ghost as it was to fucking throttle Martinez.
Wilson’s nose was bleeding profusely— Turk had clearly made some effort to fight, but was on the floor, clutching his stomach and lying by the upturned chair— and it was lucky that they had hit the lights when they did, because when MacTavish rounded the corner into the room, Ghost was on Martinez.
“Shit—”
Martinez was on his back, and Ghost sat straddling his chest, eyes dark like new moons and lips curled back into a snarl as he pummelled him. Soap rushed over, physically pulled Ghost off of him— without even sparing a glance, Ghost threw an elbow into his ribs, and MacTavish dropped him with a wheeze—
“Ghost— fuckin’ hell, Ghost, stand down—”
“You two— out of here,” Hopkins ordered urgently, picking up Turk and all but shoving him out if the room— “Lieutenant Riley—”
“Riley— hey, hey,” he tried, pulling his arm back as Ghost cocked it again— his thumb was definitely out of place, wrists bruised and knuckles raw, but he let him catch his arm, glaring over his shoulder with wild eyes—
“Put on the mask,” MacTavish soothed, quiet enough that the intercom wouldn’t pick it up— “you’re alright, you’re okay, put the mask back on.”
Ghost didn’t move, still staring at him with wide, over dilated eyes— MacTavish swiped the mask up from where it was barely in reach and pushed it into Ghost’s chest, feeling his heartbeat buzzing under his skin. The halflight caught his scars, widening them into chasms through his skin, and his eyelashes didn’t let any light in, so he looked dead.
He’d never seen Ghost like that. That wasn’t necessarily true, he’d seen it with the mask— but Soap was nearly impressed by the way Ghost managed to look even scarier without a skull painted on his face, eyes dark and deadly.
“Lucky,” Ghost snarled at him, taking the mask. Soap blinked, mouth opening and closing, but he turned to Martinez, still half cowering under his arms— the snarl turned into a smile, sharp and overtly murderous— “you got so fucking lucky, Martinez.”
The walk out was silent. Hopkins went first; Wilson, leaning forward to stop the blood from rolling down the back of his throat, dripped scarlet as he stalked out. Turk followed, wincing with a hand on his stomach and a sharp glare— MacTavish stayed behind Martinez as he limped out, face beaten and bloody.
Ghost walked out last, the mask back on. The handcuff had been removed where it was dangling from one wrist; even with the bruises colouring what little was visible of his face, he walked straight backed, daring anyone to say anything. The silence was deafening. Neither MacTavish nor Hopkins said anything, meeting each other’s eyes across the room— MacTavish stayed in front of Ghost, between him and the rest of the room, nearly defensive.
It was Green who spoke first.
“Didn’t know you were blond, lieutenant.”
For a second, MacTavish thought Ghost was going to fight. He tensed behind him, and Soap reacted fast, throwing an arm between him and the rest of the room— so what he didn’t expect was for Roach to turn around, look up, and slam his fist squarely in Green’s nose.
MacTavish didn’t even see Ghost disappear in the ensuing chaos. The room erupted in noise, anger, shouting, fighting— and too close to his namesake, Ghost slipped out, disappearing like he was never there.
“—consistently disrespectful, not just to Ghost, but to the rest of us too— Royce, Decker, Archer, not to even mention the shit they constantly give Diver—”
“Listen to me—,” MacTavish cut across Scarecrow, “listen to me, I don’t give a fuck. The four of you had a responsibility to report anything happened, you aren’t supposed to start punching each other like you’re squaddies—”
“And what the fuck is the matter with three of you?” Hopkins demanded, hands slamming into his own desk as he tore into his own men— “you were given two rules to follow— I should withdraw your RTI certifications, if you can’t follow simple fucking rules— not to mention how you’ll manage to behave with each other in the field—”
The entire meeting was still echoing in his head as MacTavish walked through the empty hallways of the dorm building on the base. It was only late afternoon, but the corridors had no windows, shrouding the entire place in shadow— Ghost’s door was the last one on the right, unmarked and unlocked.
He paused before the plain wood, hesitating before he knocked.
It hadn’t been a disciplinary meeting, it had been more of a dressing down— MacTavish had been furious at the four of them for inciting a fight, Hopkins had been besides himself at his own men for violating the most basic trusts in somewhere as vulnerable as a mock interview, and consistently antagonising their guests. They’d all been crowded into Hopkins’ office, crowded between them all— Martinez had gone to medical, and Ghost had been absent, no explanation with it.
With a low sigh, he raised his fist, and knocked.
“Ghost?”
No answer, although MacTavish wasn’t expecting one anyway— none of the doors on base had locks, and only feeling a little intrusive, he let himself in.
Ghost kept his room pristine, despite the fact no one would notice even if it was to the contrary— the bed was made, desk clear and empty, and the blinds revealed little slats of overcast afternoon light. It was empty as he stepped inside, and he closed the door behind him, looking around—
“Ghost? You in here?”
“‘M in here,” Ghost called out from the bathroom, the door to the side cracked open.
The bathroom itself was more of a cube than anything— someone, somewhere had decided it made more sense to give each room a small tiled bathroom than simply use communal ones, and the result was constricting as it was cold, without trying to be. Grey blue tiles, aged grout between them, lined the walls, and the only light in the bathroom was the white overhead, flickering and making everything seem even unfriendlier; the shower hardly had enough space to stand, and Ghost was standing across the sink, the tap running over his hand. His sleeves were rucked to his elbows to reveal bruised up wrists; his dislocated thumb was under the water, the cold water running over his skin enough to make it red as Ghost watched, eyes oddly absent. The mask was still on, slightly lopsided from where he had simply tugged it over his head— his hoodie still looked dark from the water, and MacTavish leant against the sink as he looked over him.
“You see medical?”
“For what?” Ghost asked, eyes snapping over to him.
“What d’you think?”
“What, couple of love taps and some water? I’m fine.”
“Not a couple of love taps,” MacTavish argued, looking at him, “and not some water— Christ, Ghost, they were drowning you.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d rather hear that out a medic’s mouth.”
“You’re not going to.”
“Bleedin’ Jesus, Ghost— at least go and get someone to reset your thumb,” MacTavish insisted, frustrated. Ghost just blinked at him, before shaking his head minutely, eyes falling back to the water. He wondered if the cold water soothed the ache, but Ghost twisted his hand under the tap before blocking the drain to let the sink fill.
“You get Roach in trouble?”
“Yelled at him enough that he won’t do it again,” MacTavish replied, running a hand through his hawk as he leant back, “and he’ll be in deeper shit on home base, but I don’t blame him. God only knows they had it coming.”
Ghost huffed a bare hint of a laugh, not even enough to make his eyes turn up, and kept looking at the tap.
“The rest of them?”
“Hopkins looked like he meant business.”
“Hopkins is either blind or dense,” Ghost replied, the first instance of a snarl entering his voice. “There’s no chance this is the first time they’ve acted like this. It’s the first time they’ve embarrassed themselves in front of him.”
More silence, thick and quiet. MacTavish’s phone buzzed angrily in his pocket. The water ran in rivulets over Ghost’s hand, catching the light and pouring against the water pooling in the ceramic.
“You have a first aid kit in here?”
“Why?”
“If you aren’t gettin’ seen by medical, at least let me look at you. Your face was bleeding—”
The scoff was surprisingly harsh, catching in the fabric of the mask and bordering on mean; Soap blinked, but Ghost turned the tap higher, the sound of water against water louder as he determinedly didn’t meet his eye—
“Ghost—,” MacTavish began, tilting his head to try and look him in the eye. “Ghost, you know Turk was just talking shit, don’t you? You don’t— you don’t believe him, right?”
“Here we go.”
MacTavish blinked.
“What? What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“You do this— all the time,” Ghost replied, with a split second glance over at him, “and I get that it’s funny, because of the way I look, but I’m— I’m not in the mood for it right now, alright?”
“Not in the mood for what?” MacTavish demanded, somehow even more confused and frustrated with it—
In lieu of a response, Ghost rounded his shoulders, putting more of his thumb under the cold tap. He could see the way his jaw was working under the mask, chewing on the inside of his scars, never letting them heal— and to his surprise, a dull pink flush was creeping up the skin visible around his eyes.
“What— what,” MacTavish replied, finally realising what he meant, “you think I’m takin’ the piss out of you when I call you pretty?”
Ghost twitched as he said the word, like it was a slur.
“I get that it’s funny,” he said again, voice harder and eyes firmly on the nearly filled sink, “I get that, but— fucking hell, sir, just lay off it for an afternoon.”
“Ghost— I’m not joking.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ghost muttered, eyes closing.
“Simon.”
“I know what I fucking look like!” Ghost snapped, turning to him— “I know exactly how fucked up my face is, and I’m not bloody insecure about it, but you tease me about it all the time, and—”
“I’m not teasing you!”
“—and you do it constantly,” he snarled, “even now! Like— like it fucking means something, like you want someone to believe you—”
“You should believe me!” MacTavish cut across him vehemently, as Ghost flared, eyes incredulous and the bruise still visible under the mask—
“I get that it’s funny,” Ghost said for the third time, voice forcefully even and not meeting his eye as he switched off the tap and positioned his hands, his thumb pressing against the dislocated one; “and I know why you do it after nightmares, but you keep on doing it, even now— and it’s— come on, sir, at some point, you keep mocking me about it, and it’s—”
“Riley—”
There was a crunch, cartilage grinding against cartilage, as Ghost slammed the heel of his hand into the knuckle, forcing it back into place with a pop. It looked so painful he nearly said something, but Ghost put his hand back under the cold water nearly immediately, as if to soothe—
“Cruel,” Ghost mumbled, in the new quiet.
The one word managed to knock all the wind out of MacTavish’s chest.
The light kept flickering over their heads, intermittently dimming; for the first time, MacTavish noticed the fact that the mirror had been taken from the wall behind the sink, tucked out of sight.
“It’s—,” Ghost began, before cutting himself off with apparent embarrassment, voice barely audible as he smoothed his thumb over the relocated joint. He shut his eyes, determinedly keeping them from MacTavish’s when he opened them— “just— leave it alone, for an afternoon or something.”
MacTavish’s phone buzzed again in his pocket; he ignored it, stunned into silence. Like he could physically feel the way he was staring, Ghost seemed to fidget under it, frown only deepening as he flexed his hand open and closed.
“Not going to check that?”
He didn’t need to. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that he cared, but he needed to drag his eyes away from Ghost, if only for long enough to gather his thoughts, but—
“Fuck.”
“What?” Ghost replied immediately, looking up at him—
“Immediate response op. Hopkins’ got the debrief. No— this doesn’t matter, Simon—,” he cut across himself, pocketing his phone, “listen—”
“We’ve got a mission, sir,” Ghost replied firmly. He pulled the drain on the sink, tugged down the sleeves of his hoodie, and shoved past him to get outside before he could get a word in.
There was no room to speak in the crammed debrief room, stuck for space and for men as they had to seriously consider their capacity to work together, and no space on the personnel carrier, too loud and too far away to speak to each other. No time to even think what he’d begin to say on the mission, ducking from gunfire and rushing to defuse several IEDs before they hurt civilians, only to know, that he had to—
Because maybe he hadn’t appreciated the magnitude of what it meant for Ghost to trust him with something as privileged as his face enough, until someone else had come in and physically taken off his mask— but he couldn’t believe the fact that Ghost couldn’t see exactly what he saw in the mirror. Because Soap wasn’t blind: he could see the Glasgow smile, asymmetrical and torn, the scars that tore through pale skin, over old freckles and new bruises, the way exhaustion tugged at his eyes some days, painted purple shadows under his eyes—
But they weren’t flaws the way Ghost acted like they were, he thought vehemently, as he ducked under a burst of gunfire, defusing the final charge. He didn’t know, prying off the plate to the wiring with the tip of his knife, why he cared so much. He didn’t know why it was so important to him that Ghost knew he wasn’t making fun of him. Maybe it was because it was so obvious to him, written on the wall, maybe it was the frustration that just came with the fact Ghost wouldn’t believe him, or maybe it was the fact that Ghost have to be out of his mind to think that they were flaws— because scars or not, marks or not, mask or not, he was just so—
He didn’t even know what happened. One moment he had ripped through the wires with his knife, ripping the charge from the explosives, and the next, there was a deafening crash, and everything went white.