Chapter Text
Ultimately, it was Cecelia laughing at the sixth time he’d manage to stick a nappy to his cast and tear it to shreds that made him concede defeat, fish out his phone with his good hand, and call Ghost.
“Riley,” Ghost answered, picking up after two rings.
“You’ve got experience with babies,” he began immediately, “haven’t you?”
“Go on,” Ghost replied, the way his eyebrows would knit practically audible through the phone.
“Need to know how you take one out in the rain,” he explained, jamming the phone between his shoulder and ear and ripping the remains from his cast enough to make her laugh.
“I can’t get her sick.”
There was a short silence. Cecelia blinked up at him as he dumped the remains in the bin, chewing on a giraffe toy.
“You’ve been on medical leave for a week, and you’ve already had a baby?” Ghost asked, sounding confused. “That’s efficient, sir, even for you.”
“It’s obviously not my baby.”
“You’ve stolen a baby?”
“Ghost,” MacTavish replied warningly. There was a short huff of a laugh down the phone and the shift of fabric as Ghost readjusted the phone.
“Well— depends how old she is. Pram if she’s a newborn. Pushchair if she’s older. Just make sure you’ve got a rain cover on.”
“Right,” MacTavish replied, raking a hand over his hair— “right, right, that makes sense.”
“Why d’you need to go out so badly? It’s chucking it down in Edinburgh.”
“Nappies,” MacTavish replied with a long sigh, and another look at Cecelia, before doing up her onesie. “How d’you know what it’s like in Edinburgh?”
“Well— alright,” Ghost accepted it easily. “I can get ‘em for you.”
“I— what?”
“I’m stationed at Redford,” Ghost replied carelessly. “There’s a Tesco right outside, half an hour on the bus into Edinburgh town centre. Can you wait that long?”
“Aren’t you busy?” MacTavish asked, but couldn’t help the wave of relief that was threatening to wash over him; there was the distinct sound of a laptop snapping shut, and Ghost stood.
“Not anymore,” Ghost replied, and MacTavish all but sighed with relief— “besides, I needed to go to the shops anyway, been looking for an excuse. Did you know they made teabags with the biscuits inside?”
“Huh?” MacTavish blinked, momentarily distracted.
“Yeah, Scarecrow brought in a box the other week and I didn’t believe it til he gave me some. English Breakfast, but it’s s’posed to taste like you’ve already dipped a biscuit in there. Was going to stop at the shops and see if I could get a box. There’s one that’s s’posed to taste like Biscoff,” Ghost added, and through the phone, there was the audible sound of him standing, getting ready to leave.
“Are you sure you’re not busy?” MacTavish asked again, insistent despite himself— Ghost huffed softly, and he could practically imagine him nodding.
“I’d like to see Williams stop me from leaving. What size nappies d’you need?”
“What size?”
“Adults or childrens?”
“Obviously, childrens,” MacTavish replied, frowning, “what am I goin’ to do with adult nappies?”
“Dunno, sir, incontinence isn’t uncommon in older men. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
It was incredible, the way he could hear the shit-eating grin through the phone. Cecelia, the traitor, giggled at that.
MacTavish briefly considered just telling Ghost to not bother and calling someone from Hereford to drive seven hours up and get them for him instead. He shot her a scowl, to which she beamed a gummy smile.
“Size threes, Riley. I’ll send you the address.”
“Solid copy, sir. Which one did you want?”
“Which what?”
“English Breakfast or Biscoff?”
“I— Christ alive, Ghost, just get both and get here, I’ll pay you back.”
“You’re spoiling me,” Ghost grinned, and the line went dead. MacTavish shot another look at Cecelia, who babbled something indecipherable at him, and kicked her legs.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t look at me like that.”
Alice MacTavish lived in a property so nice Soap occasionally wondered if he’d made the right choice enlisting in the military. It had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and in the front room, large windows that rain was drumming against; Cecelia’s nursery was set up upstairs, with pink flowers painted on the wall and a pale pink cot. Her schedule was pinned on the wall, the adorable little hearts on it mocking him, and her toys were still strewn all over the floor from earlier; a short half hour later, when the doorbell rang, MacTavish wrapped her up in a pink blanket and scooped her up to carry her painstakingly downstairs, pressed against his chest and one step at a time as he carefully inched his way to the door, unlocking the door.
“Fuckin’ hell, sir,” Ghost complained, as soon as the door swung open. His hair was plastered to his head, his rain jacket soaked and he was carrying a plain plastic bag; the hoodie and fatigues he was wearing suggested he had come straight from base, but in place of his balaclava, he was wearing a medical mask, “you took so long I thought I had the wrong house!”
“Don’t swear in front of Cecelia,” MacTavish replied immediately, squeezing her tighter, “d’you have ‘em?”
“I do,” Ghost replied, lifting one of the bags; and then, looking at him— “wow, you look awful.”
“Funny.”
“You think I’m kidding. Fatherhood’s really getting to you.”
“Cece,” MacTavish told her, rocking her gently and turning her around, “say hello.”
She turned big blue eyes on Ghost; for all the annoyance Ghost was scowling with, it melted away nearly immediately as Cecelia babbled something, waved her teething soother at him and beamed at him before promptly replacing it in her mouth and turning back into Soap.
“Hi, precious,” Ghost grinned softly, eyes crinkling above the medical mask— she was dressed in a blanket and a stripey baby-grow, and looked up at Soap expectantly as she chewed on her giraffe soother. “Why’re you holding her like a bomb that’s about to go off?”
“She’s not got a nappy on— nevermind that,” he grumbled, grabbing Ghost’s wrist to haul him inside, “you’re dripping water, come in.”
“Isn’t this your sister’s house?”
“I’ll mop before she gets home. Come on,” he scowled, dragging Ghost through the door and locking it behind him. “Jesus Christ, you’re letting all the heating out.”
“Remind me,” Ghost asked, putting the bags down to wriggle off his rain jacket and peel off the sodden hoodie underneath— MacTavish shot him a scowl, which Ghost ignored to flatten his rain jacket and hoodie over the radiator, “who’s trusted you with their baby?”
“Owed my sister a favour,” he replied, locking the door behind Ghost, who was pulling off his boots, before readjusting Cecelia on his hip to begin the treacherous journey of carrying a baby upstairs. “Christ, Simon, pick it up, I dunno how to get baby shit out of blankets.”
The entire house was nice, more so for Soap, who had spent so long in the soulless Army barracks he sometimes forgot how comfortable he could get: but the nursery especially had wide, single-paned windows upon which the rain drummed against, facing the garden— outside was overcast, and Cecelia’s toys were strewn across the floor, droplets reflecting in the pale light.
“I don’t understand how you could go through all the nappies in your sister’s house,” Ghost told him, as he pulled the mask off— despite the apparent lack of hesitation, he watched his eyes flicker to Cecelia for a split second. “You do know they come in packs of 24, right?”
“She uses cloth nappies, and I didn’t even know where to start with the buttons so I had to dig out one of these packets from nowhere, was only half full. And I cannae change anythin’ with this on,” he grumbled, waving the cast about as his accent thickened with his frustration, “everything sticks to it and Cece thinks it’s hilarious every time. Wee demon that you are,” he added as he looked down to her, earning him a big smile around the rubber giraffe she was chewing on. He shook his head, unable to even feign frustration— Ghost snorted a laugh, before picking up a bag and passing it over.
“Let me wash my hands. I’ll give you a hand before you manage to tear the rest of them open.”
“He’s always complaining about something,” MacTavish told Cecelia as soon as Ghost left the room for the bathroom, who turned over the rubber giraffe and chewed on it thoughtfully.
The tap switched on, and he listened to him wash his hands as he rummaged through the plastic bag, finding several boxes of new types of tea, a new packet of baby wipes, a packet of nappies, and rather endearingly, a baby comforter, a fuzzy cow he had to have picked up from the baby section with pale pink spots. He chuckled slightly, imagining Ghost’s shadow darkening the baby aisle as he sorted through the shelves; he passed it to Cecelia, who immediately let go of her giraffe to chew on its ears.
“Alright,” Ghost began, drying off his hands and rounding the corner to the nursery, “move over.”
“You do know I can change the bleedin’ nappy myself,” MacTavish grumbled, but like he hadn’t heard him, Ghost nudged him out of the way to stand by his side, crowded around the changing table.
“You’ll never get out the cast if you keep using your wrist. Go on, go pick out something warmer for her to wear, s’freezing out there.”
MacTavish grumbled, but acquiesced; he could hear Cecelia prattling away happily, and pretended he couldn’t hear the way Ghost’s voice changed for her as he talked to her, softening all its hard edges.
“You been keeping him company, huh?” He asked softly, and Soap turned back to the cupboard to hide the stupid smile that was threatening his lips— “he’s not that bad, is he?”
“Half of the clothes in here are onesies,” Soap commented, with a half-glance over his shoulder to try and catch the way Ghost’s expression had softened for her, “we can dress her up like a bear, keep her warm.”
“Get her socks, too.”
“You’re very demanding, you know,” MacTavish pointed out idly, picking out a pair of frilly white socks. “A please wouldn’t kill you.”
“And he says I complain all the time,” Ghost told Cecelia, shaking his head incredulously at her; “honestly.”
Soap rolled his eyes again, picking up a bear-shaped onesie and wandering over— Ghost was carefully wrapping up the nappy, sticking the tabs down carefully before smoothing Cecelia’s cowlick back, huffing when she laughed and let go of the cow comforter to try and stuff his hand in her mouth.
“Give her a mohawk and she’d be your spitting image, sir,” Ghost commented, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he passed her the giraffe to chew on.
“‘S the MacTavish genes,” MacTavish replied, squishing her cheeks gently, before— “wait, are you sayin’ I look like a fat baby?”
“Chubby,” Ghost corrected, grinning up at him before reaching over to pick up the onesie, glancing down at Cecelia— “not a bad thing, is it? She’s cute.”
“You can’t keep gettin’ her to agree with you all the time,” MacTavish groused, as Cecelia babbled a happy sort of agreement around her giraffe. “She agrees to everything. She thinks strangers are exciting.”
“Hm,” Ghost hummed, helping him tug the little socks on even as she wriggled away— it sometimes threw him, how little she was. She’d been alive for 8 months, terrorised his sister for 9 more, but for the life of him, Soap couldn’t imagine her becoming a grown person. She fitted very neatly in his good arm, and since he had last seen her at 3 months old, had gotten very good at babbling and talking as very best she could; Soap could practically imagine her inheriting his sister’s capacity to ramble as soon as she could speak words.
She hadn’t yet learned to be scared, was what he kept remembering as he looked at her. He’d seen children younger than her on battlefields, luckier to be dead than alive there, but there she was, absolutely enthralled by the world around her— she took one of Ghost’s thumbs in each of her hands as soon as he finished buttoning up the onesie, too small to grab anymore, and laughed as Ghost let her wave them about, delighted. As soon as he let go, her hands grasped at air towards him, frowning when he didn’t immediately hand his hands back over— Ghost, huffing softly, leant forward to pick her up, sitting her on his arm to tug the hood over her head.
“My sister doesn’t stop raving about her,” Soap commented, handing her giraffe back. “S’not hard to see why.”
“Your sister Alice?” Ghost asked, rocking her gently, apparently unconsciously; Soap nodded, unwilling to draw attention to it unless Ghost stopped.
“That’s the one. I owed her, and she called me this morning desperate because she had a patient in an emergency and her babysitter’s only gone and got sick. Spent about an hour convincing her the cast wouldn’t be a problem.”
“And all you had to do was call in reinforcements from an Army base,” Ghost replied cheekily, a smile playing on his lips. “What would you have done if I was stationed in Stirling Lines?”
“Probably would’ve had to clean up a load of baby shit, what d’you think?”
“So I can’t swear, but you can?”
“My sister’s probably said worse than that. More concerned she’ll start speaking with a Manc accent if you keep talking.”
“I’d pay to see you explain that to your sister,” Ghost laughed, glancing at Cecelia— “imagine she says her words, starts singing Boys in Blue. Could get her a City jersey and everything.”
“Can’t imagine anything worse,” MacTavish replied, earning him another laugh out of Ghost, and a peal of giggles from Cecelia— Ghost squished at her cheeks, before, rather reluctantly, passing her over to him.
“Better be getting back, then. Not that Williams’d notice,” Ghost added, with a grumble. “Dunno what I’m even doing there. Took the liaison spot for two weeks and the only specialist advice I’ve given is telling some poor corporal’s wife where the nearest toilets were.”
“You can stay,” MacTavish offered, mind only catching up to the words when they were out of his mouth— Ghost blinked, and tilted his head— “it’s pissin’ it down out there, and I’ve only got to put Cece down for a nap. My sister’ll be out for hours, she won’t mind.”
“What’ll we do?” Ghost asked, unconvinced.
“We always find something,” MacTavish replied, shrugging, “don’t we?”
The smile that that earned him was tentative, but surprisingly bright; Ghost only hesitated for a few moments longer, before humming a sort of affirmative, walking over to the window to close the curtains.
“Did your sister tell you how to get her to sleep?”
“Alice said she sleeps fine,” Soap replied, with a little glance to check if she looked sleepy— “but she was s’posed to go down an hour ago.”
“Oh.”
MacTavish looked up to where Ghost had been closing the curtains, turned around to look at him.
“What d’you mean, oh?”
“Well, she’s all excited now, isn’t she?” Ghost replied, turning fully to frown. “Is she even tired?”
“She looks awake.”
“And you don’t know what your sister does to her to put her to sleep?”
“I’m tellin’ you, she told me she sleeps fine. So long as I put her to bed on time.”
A thick few moments of silence followed that. Ghost looked at MacTavish, MacTavish looked right back at Soap; Cecelia turned her giraffe over to start chewing on its legs.
“Let’s just— put her down,” MacTavish suggested. “Maybe she’ll just fall asleep.”
“Maybe,” Ghost replied dubiously, but tugged the curtains shut regardless; carefully, MacTavish layed Cecelia down, and Ghost readjusted her hood so she wouldn’t fall asleep on it. For good measure, Soap spun the cot mobile above her head.
“Night, Cece,” he whispered, as Cecelia just watched the two of them walk out of the room, close the door behind them, and—
“Jesus Christ,” Ghost mumbled, listening to the wailing as it immediately began, “she’s got a set of lungs on her.”
“S’no chance you remember how to get a baby to sleep?” MacTavish asked, glancing over at Ghost— he gave a noncommittal shrug, scratching at his face.
“Probably in there somewhere.”
“I’ll do whatever paperwork you’re s’posed to be doing, liaise with whoever, cover you with Williams,” MacTavish replied immediately, listening to her cry, as close as he could get to begging. “Please.”
Ghost only considered it for a moment.
“You owe me,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Ideally in cash, but I’ll take those blue gummies they have in the vending machine nearest the rec room.”
“Done,” MacTavish replied immediately, relieved.
“And a new set of knives. The armoury just got a new shipment of skeleton knives and they’re useless.”
“Alright— alright.”
“And a new work-issued laptop,” Ghost added. “Mine makes too much noise at me. Pisses me off. Are you just going to leave her to cry?” He demanded, gesturing at the door. “Go pick her up!”
Cecelia, funnily enough, seemed content and willing to calm down as long as anything they did didn’t involve her sleeping.
“Sh, sh, sh, you’re okay— have you called her?”
“She’s not picking up—,” MacTavish said, nearly thirty-five minutes in, the rain drumming against the window, “listen, you don’t remember what you did to your nephew to get him to sleep?”
“I always went on walks with him ‘til he slept,” Ghost replied, turning at the window to continue his circuit of the room, rocking Cecelia in his arms all the while to keep her from tears, “but she’s not tired at all. Your sister definitely said she’s s’posed to sleep at this time?”
“She’s got a timetable,” MacTavish replied, gesturing defeatedly at it as he pocketed his phone. “Are you sure I can’t walk her?”
“You’re s’posed to be resting your wrist,” Ghost replied testily. “Why isn’t she picking up?”
“She never picks up when she’s with a patient,” MacTavish sighed, pushing his hair back. Cecelia sniffled miserably in Ghost’s arms, but hadn’t started crying again, cheeks pink and bottom lip pouting around her giraffe— Ghost murmured some soft words to her, too quietly for MacTavish to catch, as he bobbed her up and down before looking up at him.
“She’s a doctor?”
“A cardiologist, and a bloody good one, apparently,” MacTavish groused, sitting back in the armchair in Cecelia’s nursery. The rain hadn’t let up one bit, but the curtains had been closed to try and convince Cecelia to sleep; he could hear droplets pepper the window, the occasional gale making the entire pane shudder. The T-shirt had stopped sticking to Ghost’s skin, and the owl-shaped clock showed it had been a good part of an hour— Ghost made another little circuit before turning to him again.
“Family of overachievers, then?” He guessed with a soft laugh, so as to not jostle Cecelia. “What about that favour you owed her, then?”
“She got me in with an appointment to see one of her colleagues on short notice,” MacTavish replied; Ghost, turning by the door, paused.
“You’ve got a problem with your heart?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“They don’t know,” Soap replied, with another sigh. “One of the nurses at that American hospital noticed my heart rate got fast at random times, told me to go check it out when I got home. Doctor wasn’t sure.”
“When— what d’you mean, is it when you're anxious, or something?” Ghost asked, walking Cecelia up the room again— perhaps at the concern in his voice, Cecelia glanced up at him, pausing where she was still chewing the giraffe’s head.
“Not really. When we were talking, it would have been. When you fell asleep, around about.”
He’d fractured his wrist after a grenade had detonated at just the wrong time, and spent three days in an American hospital because of it. Ghost had barely left his side about it, only leaving to bring food or snacks or to get a change of clothes— he remembered the moment distinctly, because it had been late at night, and MacTavish, with too much energy to spend in bed all day, had talked to Ghost until the early hours of morning. He’d been saying something to Ghost, sat by his bed in a guest chair, when all at once, he had felt the weight rest against the thigh closest to Ghost, and looked down to find him fast asleep, mid-sentence— it had made his chest feel simultaneously light and tight, the way his eyes were softly closed, and the nurse’s look when he had mentioned to her the next morning had been far from reassuring.
“Well,” MacTavish replied, when Ghost said nothing and only did another circuit of the room, eyebrows furrowed— “well, aren’t you goin’ to take the piss out of me now?”
“Dunno if I want to,” Ghost replied honestly, rocking Cecelia again. “Don’t really want you to drop dead of a heart attack, believe it or not.”
“What, you think all that shit we see at our job won’t kill me, but my heart will?” MacTavish asked, looking up at the sudden display of concern from Ghost— “c’mon, Riley, if I do end up dropping dead of a heart attack in the middle of the day, I’m counting on you to set off a grenade under me and tell everyone I jumped on it to save you. I’m ending up on that clock tower one way or another.”
The joke, at least, seemed to ease some of the visible worry; Ghost let go of where he was worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth to snort a laugh, switching Cecelia to his other side.
“I’ll do the full weeping war widow at your funeral. Cry over your coffin and everything.”
“D’you think you’ll bother getting dressed for the funeral, or just wear your usual, and no one’d notice the difference?”
Ghost snorted again, but didn’t dignify that with a response— instead, he lifted Cecelia against his shoulder with something like muscle memory, swaying her gently as she took a tight fist of his hoodie with her free hand.
“I don’t this is getting her to fall asleep any faster,” Ghost whispered, glancing over at him. And then, apparently off his expression, in the same whisper— “oh, for the love of— sod off, John.”
“I didn’t say anything. It’s— sweet,” he replied, earnestly, only watching the way Ghost’s expression darkened—
“And remind me what it is you’re doing to help?” Ghost asked in a hiss, eyes narrowing— “can’t get her to sleep, can’t change a nappy, can you even—”
Luckily perhaps for both of them, Cecelia chose that moment to fuss against his shoulder, making a few pitiful crying sounds— it nearly gave him whiplash, the way all the vitriol in Ghost’s was replaced for something soft and careful, patting her back gently—
“Oh,” he breathed, voice tender and suddenly very quiet as he rocked her, “come on, love, you’re okay— sh, sh. You’re okay.”
Maybe it was the way he said it, or perhaps the fact he was so used to Ghost snapping and snarling that he hadn’t actually ever heard his voice when it went so gentle— MacTavish blinked, but Ghost wasn’t looking at him, eyes away as Cecelia settled herself, soothing herself by chewing on her giraffe.
“Maybe you should try holding her,” Ghost offered, after a little pause to watch her, “help her calm down. She might be up because she doesn’t know me.”
“I think you’re doing fine,” MacTavish replied softly, but stood up all the same; Ghost passed her over carefully, watching her expression. She readjusted herself in his arms, babbling something indistinct to the both of them.
“Could try reading her a story,” he suggested, brushing her hair back— “or, I dunno, Jo liked when I talked him to sleep.”
“Yeah?”
“Usually it was about military strategy,” Ghost provided, a slight smile with the memory. “Bored him to sleep.”
“That’s why you’re always nodding off in the meetings?”
“Oh, yeah. Make the association once and it never goes away.”
“Alright, Cece,” MacTavish began, readjusting her to lay more comfortably in his arms and looking down at her, “how d’you feel about learning about OODA loops?”
For a second, Cecelia let go of the giraffe and opened her mouth. They waited with bated breath, but instead of a yawn, her eyebrows furrowed, her nose scrunching, and she delivered an absolutely ear-piercing wail.
“Sh, sh—,” MacTavish soothed, rocking her to no avail, “Cece, come on, you’re okay. I was only kidding.”
“Maybe she just likes torturing you,” Ghost replied thoughtfully, over the loud sobs— “guess that’s a no on the military strategy.”
“Why is nothing you’re suggesting working?” MacTavish demanded, as she bawled even louder, face red and fat tears rolling down her face—
“I never said that any of this worked,” Ghost replied, crossing his arms. “It’s what I tried. I thought Joseph’s doctor had polka-dot walls for two months because I was so sleep-deprived every time I showed up there.”
“Helpful,” MacTavish replied sarcastically, “really helpful. Sh, Cecelia, what’s the matter? Come on, you’re fed, you’re changed, got your giraffe—”
Cecelia responded by throwing it across the room with a quite frankly impressive amount of strength for her size.
“She’s just overtired,” Ghost provided, walking over to where she had thrown it to pick it up, glancing at her schedule as he went— “she was s’posed to be in bed coming on two hours ago, now.”
“If she’s overtired, what’s she wasting her energy crying for?!”
Ghost huffed a laugh at his frustration, before coming back over to give Cecelia her giraffe back— she was so upset she refused to take it, instead electing to sob even louder at its presence.
“Bet you’re wishing you took your chances with the heart attacks, now?”
“She’s like a car alarm,” MacTavish replied miserably, “how the fuck did you choose to raise your nephew?”
“I didn’t choose. You’re not keen on kids?” Ghost asked, making the giraffe do a dramatic walk up Soap’s arm. It looked ridiculous, but worked; Cecelia snatched it in a tight fist and sniffled before she went back to chewing its legs.
“I’m keen on ‘em when they’re not tryin’ to rupture their own lungs crying,” he replied, but she quieted herself somewhat while he spoke; as soon as he was done, though, her wails went right back up to a fever pitch— “Hell’s bells, maybe she does like torturing me.”
“She stops when you talk,” Ghost pointed out, “just keep talking to her.”
“Talk to her about what?”
“Anything you want, sir,” he replied easily, and nudged him to sit back down in the armchair, brushing Cecelia’s hair back again and wiping her tears away in a move that made MacTavish’s chest squeeze dangerously. He glanced up at him, close enough that he could see where the fine ridges of his scars, where his pupils were dilated in the half light— “pretend you’re talking to me. She won’t know the difference.”
“What d’you want me to talk about?” MacTavish replied, with the distinct impression that he’d spill state secrets if Ghost was to just ask; Ghost, standing over him where he was sat down, prompted him to keep rocking Cecelia before sitting down on the arm-rest, so close he could feel the heat radiating off of him.
“I dunno,” Ghost replied, casting about for a topic as he got himself comfy, snug next to him— “tell me— I dunno, you ever wanted kids?”
“A kid, or kids, plural?” MacTavish asked, rocking Cecelia— just like before, she quieted slightly when he spoke, pressed to his chest enough that Soap could feel his own voice reverberating through her. “Grew up with four siblings, don’t think all the training in the world could get me ready for that.”
Ghost laughed softly, but stayed quiet, to prompt him to keep talking; he looked up at him, before looking down at Cecelia, wiping gently at her face.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly— “even if I found someone, I’d have to leave the service, wouldn’t I? Don’t know if I want to hang the boots up just yet.”
“Plenty of people have kids in the service,” Ghost replied, arm pressing against his— with just the T-shirt on, he could see old scars up his arms, winding up pale skin.
“S’pose so,” MacTavish replied, looking over scar-darkened knuckles and the shiny tissue of a very old burn scar on his wrist, “but— I mean, I’d only see ‘em twice a year at best with our job, wouldn’t I? A kid deserves a parent that’s more than a service picture on the wall. Even Tomasz— Alice’s husband,” he provided, with a half glance up at Ghost, “he spends half the year working overseas, but he spends the other half here— with his kid. And I wouldn’t have a kid and go out to die in the field,” he added vehemently, “I wouldn’t make a kid have to go through my funeral.”
Despite his tone, Cecelia was seemingly calm down; her eyes were open, but she wasn’t crying, watching him speak with big blue eyes. Her cheeks were still red from the force of the wails, but Ghost leant forward to squish them gently between his finger and thumb.
“You were eleven,” Ghost asked softly, still looking at Cecelia, “weren’t you?”
MacTavish blinked. He hadn’t expected Ghost to remember that, but Ghost gently fixed Cecelia’s giraffe in her arms, the room still dim and dark enough and the rain still falling.
It nearly felt like taking armour off in the middle of the battlefield, the way the sudden vulnerability made him uncomfortable— he’d never made it a habit to bare his chest nor his weaknesses, but Ghost’s hand brushed against his arm, the scars on his knuckles leaving raised goosebumps in its wake.
“No one even told me and Alice how he’d died until the day of the funeral. My mam said it was a problem with his heart— you know, a broken heart,” he explained, with a soft sort of smile at the memory despite himself— “kept him in bed for months at a time, why my mum had to wash his hair for him, why he didn’t see us anymore— why we moved to Edinburgh, right by the hospital.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, but the silence wasn’t imposing; he relaxed against his shoulder, Cecelia cooing on Soap’s chest. He brushed a thumb in little circles over her back, before pulling the hood over her head and bopping her on the nose again.
“Dunno. Think that might have been why Ali became a cardiologist— got the idea that if we could have just fixed him in time,” he huffed, mirthless, before cutting himself off with a little shake of his head.
“Wouldn’t do that to a kid,” he finished softly, “wouldn’t make ‘em bury me wonderin’ what I was thinking about right at the end.”
Even though it was just Ghost, and even though he already knew, it was nearly ironic that he couldn’t quite bring himself to say that he had killed himself in front of Cecelia. It wasn’t shame, but all at once, the entire moment seemed stifling—
“Sounds difficult,” Ghost murmured, very quietly. MacTavish blinked, looking up at him, but found no irony in Ghost’s expression, surprisingly earnest; he opened his mouth to say something, but found himself coming up empty, more so when Ghost did nothing but place his hand on his arm— not holding, or squeezing, but simply resting there.
In any normal circumstance, he’d shrink off the empty sympathies, more so by reflex than anything else. But he didn’t want to decipher why, coming out of Ghost’s mouth, it felt so different, why the entire room suddenly seemed very cold except for where they were making contact— he took the out that was Cecelia cooing in his arms, and tore his eyes away from his face to glance down at her. She was still looking up at him, tucked against his chest with nothing but trust in her eyes— still wide awake of course, but no longer upset— she blinked at him, and smiled to show where her baby teeth were just about to come in, and the age-old ache in his chest lightened.
“Besides,” he added, voice lighter and smiling slightly back at her, “let’s say I find a girl who likes me enough to stay, and I retire, get my pension and white picket fence.”
“Let’s humour that impossibility,” Ghost agreed, and MacTavish allowed the cheeky tone, glancing up at him.
“You say one wrong thing, and all at once your kid turns into one of those teenagers in trackies puffin’ on an e-cig outside the train station. S’a lot of pressure, is what I’m saying.”
“Don’t you handle bombs for a living?”
“I know what I said,” MacTavish replied, earning him a soft huff of amusement from Ghost as he got comfy against him. Happier, now, Cecelia babbled something to him, chewing on the sleeves of her bear onesie— he rocked her again gently, before lifting her up to be eye level, making her giggle.
“You just aren’t tired at all, are you?”
She responded by squawking happily, knocking her giraffe directly into his nose.
“Ow.”
“She’ll do great in interrogation,” Ghost laughed, picking her up; she kicked happily, and Ghost turned her around to face MacTavish, “imagine we sic her on a target. She’d be lethal.”
“What about you, then?”
“Hm?”
“You ever wanted kids?” MacTavish asked, looking up at him; Ghost met his eye, and then looked away.
“This obviously isn’t putting her to sleep any faster,” he replied, with a little look down at her, arms tightening slightly to keep her steady.
“That’s not fair,” MacTavish argued immediately, crossing his arms, “I said my bit, now you say yours.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Ghost shot back, earning him a giggle out of Cecelia. It made MacTavish’s heart do a little flip in his chest, the way Ghost’s expression softened for her; he lifted her up higher, before catching her in his arms, bundling her up enough to make her kick out, delighted—
“S’not like I could have a kid even if I wanted,” Ghost pointed out, although his voice was quieter, and he was still watching Cecelia laugh. “Can’t put a name down on the birth certificate if I’m legally dead, can I?”
Oh.
“I—,” MacTavish began, backtracking— “sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” Ghost cut across him, with a half-glance down at him. “Probably for the best. Not the parent type, anyway.”
“You’ve got to realise how that sounds when you’re basically the only reason Cece’s not bawling her eyes out.”
Ghost huffed a laugh at that, glancing down at him; Cecelia had finally let go of her giraffe, and had elected to latch onto his T-shirt, chewing it thoughtfully.
“This is different.”
“I s’pose, but what about your nephew?”
“That’s different, too,” Ghost replied, gently prying the shirt out of Cecelia’s mouth and readjusting the bear hood. He shifted, so they were a little closer on the armchair; the room was still dark, another gale rattling the window.
Ghost didn’t say anything for a long moment, handing Cecelia her giraffe back and watching her chew on it.
The silence wasn’t uncharacteristic for Ghost, who picked and chose when he wanted to be loud enough that everyone’s eyes were dragged to him, and quiet enough that he could slip around unseen; what was uncharacteristic, though, was the way he seemed to get lost, eyes on Cecelia and not really seeing her. A wry sort of smile tugged at his lips, and he blinked it all off before MacTavish could ask—
“We neutralise awful people for a living,” he said instead, looking up at him. “You know, arms dealers, drug runners, traffickers. You ever wonder how they ended up doing that?”
“I— try not to,” MacTavish replied truthfully, because the first thing they were taught in basic was how vital it was to be able to dissociate themselves from their targets— “why?”
“Well,” Ghost shrugged, looking back down at Cecelia and rocking her again, “some of them grew up in their wars. Some of ‘em are like us, enlist for a cause. But then there’s— you know, people just saw it all as an opportunity, aren’t there? Makes you think,” he shrugged again, deliberately keeping his tone light, “were they just born that way? Right set of circumstances, makes them into monsters?”
He gave Cecelia’s cheeks another little squeeze— his eyes stayed on hers as he spoke, so she listened raptly, and as he finished, babbled something in response.
“Dunno,” Ghost finished, quieter, rocking her again. “I don’t think I’ve got good genes to be a father. Right set of circumstances, and all that.”
It was a surprisingly introspective answer, and it hung in the quiet. Cecelia, perhaps at the mood shift, made some noise, discontent; MacTavish watched Ghost smile slightly, before scrunching his entire expression enough to make her laugh.
“I mean,” MacTavish replied, looking up at him, “followin’ that logic, I’ll top myself as soon as my kid gets into high school. We’ve— got the choice to be different, haven’t we?”
The scars on Ghost’s cheeks twisted when he smiled, and for a split second, he met his eye; like it made the moment too real, though, he looked away again, eyes falling back down to Cecelia.
More silence, but not the sort that came at the end of a conversation. Ghost was very careful with what little bits of himself he revealed. It often came when he was too sick or scared to realise what had spilled out of his mouth, and swallowed back up just as fast— but occasionally, it came like that, soft and quiet and so very vulnerable, like he had never learnt to talk about himself in any meaningful way without the expectation of violence.
“He was,” Ghost paused, casting around for the word— “creative, was all.”
“Yeah?” MacTavish asked, tilting his head; Ghost shifted again, comfortable on the armrest and sat so that MacTavish had to turn to look up at him.
“I had to be— what, six? And I don’t know what I was thinking,” Ghost shook his head, that same wry smile from earlier appearing, “one of his friends bred illegal pets— expensive ones, usually. And I must have told someone that I was scared of the snakes. All of them, but this one in particular, brown and black. It was just the way they— moved, that scared me. Still not keen on ‘em. ”
The way he was sat, he had Cecelia lying down on his thighs— gently, he offered her her giraffe again, which she took in two fists, biting happily. He couldn’t see Ghost’s expression, but could see the way Cecelia mirrored it, smiling up at him.
“And— middle of the night one time, he— I don’t know,” Ghost sighed, brushing Cecelia’s hair back again, “don’t know why he did it, but he held me down and woke me up, and he just— had the same snake off his friend, brown with black stripes up its back. Held its mouth shut, but its tongue kept flicking at me. And he wouldn’t get off me, wouldn’t stop shouting until I—” he laughed softly, but it lacked humour, “until I kissed it.”
There was a moment of quiet— MacTavish had to genuinely resist the urge to look up at him, halfway between bewildered and alarmed. His tone wasn’t joking, and his hands stayed gentle on Cecelia, his thumb brushing down the bridge of his nose.
“Imagine trying to explain that to your teachers the next day at school,” Ghost shrugged after a moment, a tiny stab at amusement in his voice— “but— I mean, once he was done— I don’t remember why, but he opened his arms for some reason. And I thought— I was six, so I thought he was going to hug me because I was crying so hard, say sorry,” Ghost laughed in earnest that time, enough to make Cecelia laugh, too, echoing his smile. “Woke up the next morning with a black eye.”
Cecelia was adoring all the attention, grossly unaware of the mood. As he spoke, he brushed his thumb down the bridge of her nose again, enough to make her eyes flutter, captivated.
“Not the sort of thing I’d gamble on, s’all,” he finished, voice very soft and suddenly aware of how delicate the moment was. “Whether I’d— whether I’d actually be different.”
Aside from the occasional allusion to something unhappy, Ghost barely referenced his childhood; never anything as specific, nor as personal, as that. His eyes hadn’t left Cecelia’s, either unwilling or unable to meet his eye— the air between them was like glass, delicate.
Truthfully, MacTavish didn’t know what to say— so he let his hand drift up to Cecelia, brushing her face enough to make her smile before giving Ghost’s hand a tiny, momentary squeeze. Pressed together as they were, he felt, more than heard, the scoff of laughter, and looked up to find him smiling in earnest, enough to meet his eyes.
“You’re going to be fine, though,” Ghost told him, lifting Cecelia to his chest to try and rock her to sleep again. “I can just imagine you driving around a seven-seater with a load of kids in the back to football practice.”
“Really?”
“You’d be the one parent crying at primary school graduation,” Ghost replied, smiling with it, “can just imagine you now. Probably use your captain's voice when they start misbehaving.”
“Ha,” he replied sarcastically, “I don’t have a captain’s voice.”
“You absolutely do,” Ghost shot back, standing up to look down at him, “whenever you’re barking orders!”
“I don’t bark,” MacTavish grumbled, crossing his arms. “I ask you. Nicely.”
“Right. Like you asked me nicely to bring you nappies and roped me into getting your niece to sleep.”
“I didn’t rope you into it—”
“Yeah, alright,” Ghost waved him off in a way MacTavish knew he was doing to get under his skin, “whatever you say. I just remembered this thing I used to do to Joseph to get him to sleep.”
“Yeah?”
“Look for a pacifier,” Ghost instructed him, with a glance around the nursery, “I’ll take her downstairs a second. It’s worth a try.”
Ridiculous, really, the way he managed to punch all the air out of his chest with one sentence and get his blood pressure up with the next; with that, however, Ghost carefully carried Cecelia out of the room, and silent as he was, Soap didn’t hear his footsteps down the stairs.
He only realised how fast his heart was beating as Ghost left. It wasn’t unpleasant, like anxiety, or uncomfortable like nerves, but he was distinctly aware of the way it was speeding away in its chest, like it was trying to get out— making a small mental note to tell his sister before he went home, he brushed it off to look for a pacifier. It took a good fifteen minutes of digging about, Cecelia’s things strewn everywhere, but the sky was darkening as he found it and brought it downstairs, following the sounds to the kitchen.
It wasn’t even the first time it had happened, and he’d noticed it most often with Ghost; the temperature, he reasoned, or maybe the conversation they had been having, had made his chest feel like that— but he rounded the corner, and to his surprise, found Ghost with his back turned to him, stood in the dark kitchen with the blinds drawn.
His sister had decorated the pale tiles and plain countertops with several plants, and Cecelia’s cutlery was everywhere, bright plastic plates and baby bottles on every surface— the box of formula milk was out, and Ghost himself had a bottle in one hand, Cecelia in his other arm. The giraffe was on the countertop, and Soap could hear very soft singing.
“A sailor goes out to sea, sea, sea,” Ghost sang, very quietly, to Cecelia, “to see what he could see, see, see.”
It was more humming than singing, but the notes were careful and soft, deliberate for her— vaguely, MacTavish dug up a conversation where Ghost had joked that MacTavish would be blown away by the way he sang. In the present, his ribcage suddenly felt very constricting.
“But all that he could see, see, see,” Ghost kept going, and where he turned slightly, rocking Cecelia as he went, “was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.”
It almost felt like a panic attack, except he wasn’t panicking— Ghost rocked her some more, still apparently unaware of his being there.
“See?” Ghost whispered, and the smile was audible in his voice, enough to make his chest squeeze, “wasn’t so hard, was it? Giving your uncle grief for nothing.”
There was the distinct lack of Cecelia cooing, or babbling, or making any sort of noise— Ghost huffed, amused, and placed the bottle of milk down.
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered, even quieter and tender with it, “he loves you anyway.”
He swore the step he took into the kitchen was silent, but Ghost turned like he had announced himself, half surprised and half defensive— when he said nothing, though, he relaxed, glancing down at the pacifier.
“Dip it in the milk in the pan,” he whispered, rocking Cecelia in again, “she’ll take to it better like that.”
“She’s asleep?”
“Nearly,” Ghost replied, with a little glance down at her. “Give her hot milk with a bit of sugar, let her drink herself into a milk coma. Always works.”
MacTavish nearly said something, maybe to tease or maybe a compliment enough to get Ghost to squirm— he bit it back, though, too aware in the silence of how fast his heart was going. Instead, he walked over to the pan, and dipped the pacifier in the milk as instructed; Cecelia, eyes closed and breathing softly in Ghost’s arms, took to it by instinct, sighing softly in a way that made MacTavish’s teeth ache.
“Joseph was a lot like her,” Ghost said out of the blue, very softly. “Happy. And an awful sleeper.”
“D’you think about him a lot?” MacTavish asked, looking up to catch his expression; Ghost’s expression twisted slightly, but settled on something softer.
“All the time.”
MacTavish didn’t say anything to that, but took Cecelia when prompted, dead weight in his arms. It was a slow go to carry her upstairs, but at the very least, the nursery was already dark by the time they got there— MacTavish laid her down in her crib very gently, and she didn’t stir, still sucking on her pacifier. They’d left her giraffe downstairs, so Soap tucked the cow comforter Ghost had gotten her next to her— Ghost held the door open for him, and as they snuck outside, it clicked softly behind them, and they waited.
“Nothing,” Ghost whispered, after several moments. “She’s fast asleep.”
“And it only took—,” MacTavish glanced at his watch, “two whole hours.”
“When’s your sister s’posed to be back?” Ghost asked, going towards the stairs as he looked up at him— the sun had set in earnest, and MacTavish hit the lights to bathe the place in a soft glow.
“Long enough that you can stay and get something to eat. I’ll make you pasta.”
“Oh?” Ghost was smiling as he turned on the stairs, “trying to skirt your way out of that laptop, sir?”
“If the pasta’s good enough, might make you forget that you blackmailed me with a baby.”
“I didn’t blackmail you,” Ghost frowned, “it’s called being persuasive.”
“Aye, Riley, and you’re the most persuasive person I know.”
“If I was blackmailing you,” Ghost argued firmly, “you’d know you were being blackmailed. I—”
At that moment, the front door clicked.
The stairs were directly in front of the front door, and focused on Cecelia, they had entirely missed the sound of any engines over the rain—
“—not sayin’ I don’t trust him, mam, I’m sayin’ if he calls me ten times I’m gonnae assume Cece’s managed to kill the lad—”
“Have some faith in your wee brother, Alice, he’s not completely useless—”
Alice MacTavish came in first, drenched in rain and still in her scrubs, navy blue, and with her dark brown hair plastered to her forehead. Laura, MacTavish’s mother, and far better dressed for the weather, was following right behind her. They both paused as they spotted them, and Ghost and MacTavish paused as they were spotted.
The only thing audible for a moment was the rain.
“Hello,” Alice blinked up at Ghost.
“Hi.”
“Johnny,” Laura waved.
“Mam.”
“You didn’t tell me we had guests,” Alice looked up at MacTavish. “I’ve not cleaned.”
“I don’t mind,” Ghost chimed in, before going quiet.
Another long moment of quiet. Both Laura and Alice were looking expectantly at Soap, who truthfully had no clue what to say.
Ghost broke the silence first.
“Well,” he began, “Major Williams’ll kill me if I’m not back soon, so…” he half turned to Soap, and shrugged, “I’d better get going.”
“I— s’pose. Do you need a taxi fare?”
“I’ve got it,” Ghost waved him off, walking to the bottom of the stairs and tugging on his shoes. “Uh… nice to meet you both,” he said, to the two of them, “John’s told me a lot. I’ll— I’ll just go.”
He took the jacket and hoodie from the radiator by the door, and tugged them on; Alice sidestepped slightly to allow Ghost to slink past them into the night. No one closed the door behind him, so a little perplexed, he turned, and reached behind him to close the door— the two of them were still looking at him with that same expression, right up until the door closed.
“Johnny!” Alice demanded, hands on hips.
“What?”
“You’re just makin’ him go home in the rain?”
“John Arthur MacTavish,” Laura frowned, crossing her arms. “I’ve raised you better than this. Didn’t even ask if he had had dinner, did you?”
“I— he’s not had dinner, mam, I—”
“Then bloody invite him in for some!” Alice chided— “you’ve not even introduced the poor lad!”
“That’s— for God’s sake,” he grumbled, rushing down the stairs and tugging on his own boots before throwing the door open and stepping out into the rain— “Simon!”
The rain was deafening, and somehow, in all of fifteen seconds, Ghost had already gotten halfway down the street. By some small mercy, though, he turned, immediately coming back over when he spotted him in the rain—
“John? What’s the matter?”
“Come in for dinner!”
“What?”
“Stay for dinner,” MacTavish said, as he came closer, one hand shielding his face from the rain as it soaked through his jumper, “Williams won’t give a fuck, and you’ll get a hot meal. I’ll drive you back to base.”
“It’s alright,” Ghost replied immediately, “I was kidding about the laptop, John, you don’t actually have to bribe me—”
“Don’t you want to stay?” MacTavish asked, blinking rain out of his eyes— Ghost, with his hood pulled up over his head, made a face—
“What, do you— want me to stay?”
“Course I bloody want you to, that’s not the point!” MacTavish yelled over the rain, “listen, I—”
“Alright— alright, I’ll stay,” Ghost agreed, just like that. Soap blinked, but Ghost wheeled him around and pulled him along, out from the rain.
“Running after me like we’re in a bloody film,” Ghost grumbled, tugging him back towards the door— “could’ve just asked me normally.”
“This is my lieutenant,” MacTavish announced as they came through the door, back into the warmth of the house. Alice and Laura both looked at him, so for good measure, he put a hand on Ghost’s shoulder; he glanced over at him, so Soap shot him the most reassuring look he could, “Simon.”