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he prided himself on his punctuality.
like clockwork, ghost was always at least 5 minutes early. it never mattered if it was an important meeting or the rare invitation out to a pub after a successful mission. it gave him time to assess, find somewhere out of the way to sit that at least has the exit in sight. and if it helped him keep track of the days by planning his waking life in carefully maintained blocks, keeping to a routine that he had been deprived of over and over, that was his own business.
but it also meant he got agitated by any small hiccup. he hated being late, having spent most of his childhood always being late. hated losing track of time, too familiar with the way it felt to not know if it had been 2 minutes or 2 hours.
and he felt a little childish, being upset by something so meaningless, in the grand scheme of things. ghost's own enforced time restraint that, really, didn't have to be on the dot.
again, he wipes his clammy hands off on the joggers bunched around his lower thighs. angry at himself and the world. cursing the way his hands shook, ice-cold and sticky with sweat.
a 30 minute power nap to make up for the hours of sleep missed the night before had turned into a 6 hour nap. he had slept through his 1700 alarm, a noise that was too gentle in retrospect. by the time the next alarm went off, it was already dark in his room, only slits of void peeking through the blinds, the lights of base drowning out the stars.
his dream disappears as soon as his eyes snap open, the blaring tone of his alarm seeming to shove his heart up into his throat. blindly, he fumbles for the damned device, hand slapping his phone before he gets his fingers around it. he has half a mind to chuck it at the wall.
the quiet that follows him switching the alarm off is just as disorienting. simon can hear his heart thundering in his chest, his muscles tensed near painfully. he knows where is, he's aware that nothing is happening. but it doesn't soothe the panic any faster.
it was his 2300 alarm for every tuesday, reminding him to do his shot.
usually, he remembered without the alarm. at some point, he had even contemplated deleting it, annoyed by how he had to remember to disable it before it went off later in the day. it wasn't like he made hours long cat naps a habit. and really, it isn't the end of the world, seeing as he had an hour. yet still...
it's how simon got to where he was now. sitting on the lid of his toilet, the tiny en suite cramped for a man his size. the light overhead made everything seem bleached, his eyes still squinting against it as he works on pulling the oily, thick solution from the tiny vial in his hand and into the syringe in his other.
he had nearly stabbed himself just getting the needle into the bottle, hands shaking unreasonably. nerves still agitated from the rude awakening from what was possibly an even ruder dream. on top of it is nausea, unsure of the source. but the film in his mouth from sleep wasn't making it any better, and he couldn't help the way he was keenly aware of the sweat drying on his skin and in his hair.
he pushes the plunger in a bit to even out the measure, and pulls the needle from the vial. it takes three tries to get the cap back on, and his sweaty hand slips on the smooth plastic as he tries to twist the needle off of the syringe.
briefly, ghost contemplates just throwing the damn thing. as if that would help, and wouldn't make it so he'd have to start all over, unsure when was the last time he had bothered to mop. the childish notion is ignored with a sharp huff through his nose, his upper teeth worrying at dead skin on his bottom lip.
logically, he knows he could get it done at medical. his situation with his gender was the least of his concern regarding who knew what. anyone who'd have a problem with it would keep quiet if they wanted to keep their tongue.
but the idea of going down to the infirmary, waiting for an opening just so he could get pricked with a needle in less than five minutes -- something he could very much do himself -- felt like too much of a hassle. a waste of effort and resources, really.
but he knows, as he twists a smaller gauge needle onto the prepped syringe, that he'll be lucky if he can get it in his leg in one try. it wasn't the first time he had done this with questionable faculties. if anything, he was lucky to be curled up in his en suite in credenhill, rather than in some safe house in the-middle-of-nowhere, georgia, barely shielded from the elements.
he stares for a long moment at the offending needle, the semi-opaque cap still firmly on. it shakes with the twitching of his hand. his fist curls around it, trying to stop the shaking. it barely helps.
he isn't exactly sure how long it'd be considered sterile if he left it here. simon doubted there were guidelines around something like that, sure that not many people wimp out of the shots that they wanted in the first place. of course, a slightly non-sterile needle won't be the worst thing that he'll have put in his body.
ghost knows it isn't the needle. it isn't the burn of the testosterone once it's plunged into his muscle. it isn't the uneasy feeling he gets when he sees the syringe and used needles in the trash, like his very own snapshot of the past in a less grimy bathroom and without that boyish terror of the weight of responsibilities.
in truth, it's a side effect. he's frazzled from the dream and the alarm. as always, he threw himself headfirst into the next task as soon as he woke up, willing his mind to stay quiet for just a bit longer. but he can hear the hum of electricity above him, can hear his shaky breaths bouncing off the tiled hell he was confined in. it's freezing, and he's curled in on himself in a threadbare t-shirt with joggers that had steadily made their way over his knees as he moved.
he puts the syringe on the sink ledge, shifting forward to rest his elbows on his knees in the same motion. he forces himself to inhale deeply, the air cold and biting the back of his throat and smelling like bleach. the exhale is just as forcibly slow, still too unsteady for his liking.
he stays like that for an indeterminate amount of time. head hung, his hands having moved up to cup the back of his neck. he only moves when he feels the buzz of pins and needles under the skin of his thighs. his feet stick with dried, tacky sweat against the tiles as he shifts them forward.
the plastic lid of the toilet groans as he forces himself to stand, a hand on the sink for purchase. there isn't a mirror above it, only a clean square bordered by aged tiles lingering as a suggestion of one having been there before.
ghost's eyes flick down to the syringe, again. frustration sparks readily in his chest, angry at himself for this hangup. really, it was all he had been these past few months. angry, angry, angry. at himself, at general shepherd, at captain mactavish, at any poor bastard that crosses his path.
ironically enough, he knew who it was he'd have to face to get this done.
he steps out of the en suite, letting the white light flood the rest of the room as he padded around. his joggers get pulled back up over his hips, not having to bother with the drawstring for the first time since he had gotten them. a hoodie is grabbed from his narrow closet, tugged easily over his head. all he bothers with, tonight, is a plain black neck gaiter. the rest of his head merely gets covered with the hoodie.
back into the tiny en suite, he fishes out a band-aid from the bag he had shoved under the sink, having to get creative with the lack of cabinet space. he ignores the fact it's a hello kitty band-aid, vividly remembering when sanderson had given him a pack of them a few months back as a gag. he only kept them because it'd be a waste of resources to throw them out, naturally.
it and the syringe get carefully placed in the front pouch of his hoodie, tested to make sure neither would slip out on his walk. he sets off the moment his boots get put on without bothering with the laces, with those getting tucked between the tongue and the boot.
his plan is a questionable one. truly, he has no idea how this isn't worse than medical. at least the people there he'd have to grovel to for this kind of shit were there for that purpose. this was... irrational. and the fact that he was aware of it made it even more absurd.
he knew better than to check the officer's barracks at this hour. he knew that he'd only come up empty handed as he wasn't the only one with an identifiable routine. it was a tuesday night, and there hadn't been much of a lull in work on his own end.
the path to the offices was familiar enough. his captain's was on the east side of base, just past the mess and an exit, giving way to 8 or so offices.
only one had a warm glow reaching out from underneath the door, the rest having gone dark and obviously vacant for the night. he can hear the jingle of keys down the hall, as well the rolling of wheels on linoleum as whoever was on custodian duty did their rounds.
he's worrying at his lip again, hands clenching into fists, blunt nails digging crescents into his palms. he feels silly, a grown man -- a lieutenant, no less -- going to his captain because his hands won't stop shaking long enough for him to stab himself.
they weren't close enough to warrant this, even. most of their interactions, in and off the field, consisted of him getting reprimanded for his impulsiveness and temper. mactavish was the first captain who didn't utilize him in a way a lieutenant should. he's rarely consulted for mission details if it doesn't require his specialties, gets suspiciously slim paperwork, and it's rare he's leading a team without the captain being there or in his ear. every praise he got was a sharp nod or the rare clap on his shoulder, followed up by mactavish telling him what he did wrong, no matter what.
it's silly. he knows it's silly, childish, petulant. he knows criticism is good, helps him improve as a soldier. he gives enough of it, himself. granted, it's rarely as nice as mactavish gruffly phrases it. the fact he isn't being overly relied on, shouldering more work than he should, was also a good thing. or, it should be. but there's this itch. he has no idea how else to describe it.
he shakes his head physically, as if shaking off the thoughts. it's the captain or nothing, he tells himself. and he wasn't planning on fucking up his schedule because of... whatever the hell this is.
ghost lifts his hand, finally, and knocks on the thick wood. it feels too loud for the dark hall, every other light shut off to dim the building. his hand returns to his pocket, confirming that nothing had fallen out.
there's a long moment of silence. long enough that he starts contemplating that mactavish had just left the light on by accident. or he had fallen asleep at his desk, which wouldn't be a first.
"it's open," is what cuts through his thoughts. rough and edged with exhaustion, much like how ghost felt.
it opens easily as promised, and he has to squint against the light, coming in from the dark hall. he nearly doesn't let it shut behind him, a bit nervous to be shut in despite knowing the door would remain unlocked. but standing in this closed off space, he's met with the full force of captain mactavish's scrutiny.
under his stare, his skin crawls. it truly isn't far from what withdrawal feels like, all of his nerves and senses dialed, keenly aware of everything. energy buzzing under his skin while exhaustion weighs him down. it's the ptsd, the paranoia, and whatever had latched on from his forgotten dream. he pointedly stares at the plastic, potted plant at the edge of his desk. it still manages to droop as though it were dying.
"riley, what is it?" mactavish prods, impatience coloring his tone. his hands are stained with ink, his journal open on one side of the desk, a mug pinning down one of the corners while his hand held down the other. the rest of the desk space was covered in pages that were unreadable from where he was standing. he didn't have to read it to know it was another workload that the captain had snagged before it could get to ghost's hands.
where his hand is still in his pocket, he squeezes the syringe, careful of the plunger. his skin is still uncomfortably clammy, and he doesn't feel quite steady as he stands there.
he takes a step forward, just enough so he can put the syringe on the desk. there's no question as to what it is. the cap is still firmly in place, but the plunger is pulled back, a slight tinted solution in it. he doesn't even try meeting the captain's eyes, able to feel his stare like a physical sensation.
yet again, he's floundering. he had kept a strict routine the past 6 months, and today it had been constantly downhill. sleeping too long, nearly missing his t-shot. he hadn't even planned what to say or how to explain it. if he should reassure the captain it wasn't about the needle, or if that'd be cause for concern.
"have to do this by midnight," is how he starts. his voice was still rough with sleep, his tongue sticking to the inside of his mouth. he's sure he isn't a pretty sight, either. "barely got this far."
his eyes finally flick up at the sound of the chair creaking, the captain leaning back in his seat. it was hard, with him, to tell why he was scowling. the low light of the lamp make the shadows cast by his eyelashes seem even longer, steel gray eyes a darker blue. when he rubs a hand over his face with a sharp sigh, he smudges ink down his cheekbone.
"is there a reason, lieutenant, why you've brought this to me and not the infirmary?" he asks. obviously displeased about this interruption. he knows that he's the last person the captain wanted to see most days, seeing as they seemed to butt heads constantly.
"would be a waste of their time, wouldn't it?" he argues lamely with a shrug. metaphorically, his tail is tucked between his legs.
he sees mactavish's brow raise, absently using his heel to rock the office chair back and forth. his arms had come up to cross over his chest, showing the way the sleeves strained around his biceps. ghost looks away quickly, staring at the sad plastic plant instead.
"and you're not wasting my time with this, are you?" he needles, and if ghost didn't know any better, he'd say the captain even sounded amused. but neither his expression nor his body language changes as he glares up at ghost.
"busy with..." he starts, unable to stop himself as he leans in closer to get a look at the papers on the desk. the journal had shut itself against the mug without mactavish holding the other end open. "training reports, sir?"
he doesn't mention the fact that sergeant lister had supposedly dropped the reports off at his drop box. the one that required a key for him to get into, that he didn't remember giving mactavish a copy of.
the scot shifts up in his chair to lean back over the desk, gathering up the pages into a stack that he lifts, tapping on the desk. "aye. they," he starts, glancing at the top page, one in which he grimaces at. "are our future, after all."
ghost huffs out a soft breath, one that barely disturbs the fabric of his face covering. but quickly, he's caught up by the quiet that follows. uncertainty making tension coil between his shoulder blades, hands clenching into fists where they had moved to rest in his hoodie pocket.
"i'll go--" is how he breaks the silence, one he's sure barely lasted more than a second or two. he makes a move to pull a hand out to grab for the syringe, mentally checking to see if any of his duties tomorrow involved crossing paths with the captain.
mactavish manages to grab it faster, their fingers brushing for that split second before he was pulling back. ghost froze, heart in his throat as he watches him stare at the syringe.
he pushes the chair back with his heel, managing to catch the flitting thing that was ghost's bewildered gaze. "sooner we do this, sooner you leave." his expectation was obvious, now that he really looks. the center of the desk had been cleared and he had moved to sit with space in front of him, seeming to have no intention of standing.
he thinks, a little hysterically, that there has to be a porno with this setup somewhere.
it's ridiculous how, now that he's gotten his way, he isn't so sure it's what he wanted. a decision made in a frustrated panic, unwilling to let that single hour go. it wouldn't impact him much, medically, if he were to put the shot off until he had calmed. but idea of changing up his schedule like that made him scared, not knowing what else he'll let slip.
"i'll have to pull my joggers down, sir," he reasons carefully. "this is silly, really. i shouldn't have--"
"riley," mactavish cuts him off, his tone heavy in exasperation. for once, he stops, teeth clicking as his jaw shuts. "unless you're not wearing any pants under those, get over here." his skin burns beneath his neck gaiter and hood, feeling too exposed despite having the same amount of coverage a balaclava would give.
this taught him a lesson, he reasoned. never run to mactavish unless he wanted to walk away with a bruised ego, of all things.
ghost doesn't drag his feet as he rounds the desk, at least.
the movement to grab at his waistband is jerky, as if his muscles were fighting him on this. thumbs under the elastic, he tugs them halfway down his thighs. with a plastic chair just a few feet away, he stares at mactavish, almost waiting for him to at least concede the joke of getting riley to sit on his desk.
they stare at each other for a long moment, before the older man nods his head at the desk as a clear signal. simon finds himself inwardly sighing, shuffling those last few steps between mactavish and the desk before sitting awkwardly on the ledge.
he takes the baid-aid out of his pocket, putting it beside him. he ignores the pink color of it, with the little white cat on it, hoping mactavish wouldn't say a word about it.
"no alcohol wipes?" he asks as he slides his chair closer, legs spreading to bracket ghost's between them. realistically, he knows he isn't trapped. but it certainly feels like it, cornered with his heart pounding in his chest.
his silence is taken as an answer, and he watches him shaking his head to himself. the cap gets pulled off, exposing the needle.
"it's intramusc--"
"i know, riley," he cuts him off yet again. any retort or ill-willed thoughts are cut short by the hand that gets placed on his thigh. he ran cold naturally, glad he was afforded the extra layers of clothing for his job. so in contrast, mactavish's hand is hot where it's splayed over the expanse of his thigh, muscles that were still relatively gained back jumping under his touch.
it doesn't help that his thumb pets soft strokes along the soft skin of his inner thigh, hands calloused in the way that simon's were not. his own hands rested on either side of him, curling over the edge of the desk.
when he pinches the fat and muscle there, pulling it taut between his thumb and forefinger, it's more uncomfortable than the stab and slide of the needle. he watches him push down the plunger with his thumb, the thick base of his testosterone slowing the process. all the while, the pinch slowly relaxes.
as soon as the plunger hits the bottom, he extracts it at the same speed. all that's left there is a bead of oil that had welled up, tinged pink with blood.
really, it happens all at once. uneventful. it was something he had done himself over and over again, and he didn't understand why this was any different.
mactavish, thankfully, doesn't comment on his choice of band-aid when he reaches for it. it makes for an amusing sight, a man as rough and angry as mactavish handling a hot pink band-aid, peeling off the adhesive guards.
he applies it with the same amount of care, touch softer than expected. his thumb swipes over the smooth surface of the band-aid more than necessary, but for once ghost manages to keep his mouth shut. watching him press all along the edges of the wings as if he was truly concerned it wouldn't stick for as long as he'd need it.
when his hand pulls back, simon thinks that's the end of it. the excruciating exchange over, and his shot done in time.
what he doesn't expect, however, is to watch the captain lean forward. his heart lodges itself firmly in his throat, eyes wide and body taut. lips press to his band-aid, a soft kiss that he feels the pressure of through the bandage rather than the actual sensation of skin on skin.
mactavish sits up with a glint of mirth in his eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. smug as he looks up at ghost, just another way of pinning him in place and making him feel like a bug under a microscope.
"there, all better."
riley could feel his face grow scorching, sure that he's beet red. worse is the amount of blood that had traveled south far too quickly. he can practically feel his heartbeat in his cunt, a side of himself that he'll definitely have to come back to later.
"y'ever done a shot?" he asks, voice wavering with a mesh of emotions and an attempt to save face. he doesn't have to stay and conversate, he really doesn't.
mactavish sits back in his chair again. ghost's legs are still between his thighs, his ass on his desk with just the thin layer of cotton boxers separating him from the wood. it certainly wouldn't be easy to explain if someone were to walk in right then.
"my sister's dog had puppies shortly after she got her. she couldn't handle the needles for their shots so i did all seven pups' vaccines."
ghost gave a soft hum, before his eyes narrowed at the other man. "you callin' me a dog?"
mactavish doesn't quite smile, but the corners of his eyes squint, his lips pursing slightly. "you yap enough to mistake you for one. anyone ever tell you 'hush, boy'?"
ghost scoffs, fighting the urge to let his thigh squeeze together. instead, he stands from the desk, quickly working to drag his joggers back over his hips, hiding the hello kitty graphic under the gray, dense fabric.
"i come to you for help and all i get is humiliated," he grouses, half-sincere. he's sure he'd be more believable if he wasn't still standing between the captain's legs.
"you like it," mactavish teases back. "why else would ye come?"
ghost's stare turns into a genuine glare then, face burning hotter than ever. "sod off," is all he can grumble. he steps out from between the desk and the scot, pocketing the syringe. the waste from the band-aid gets tossed in the bin, and he's making a hasty retreat to the door.
only there, he stops to glance over his shoulder, not quite meeting the captain's gaze. "thank you," he murmurs just loud enough to be heard before shoving the door open, disappearing back out in the dark hall.