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An onlooker might not notice, but Captain MacTavish was a man of habit.
It wasn’t obvious, but Ghost had spent far too much time with it. Habits got them killed, but they persisted like weeds between concrete; little things, like the way that MacTavish would ostensibly just kick his boots off as soon as he got in, but really leave them where he could step into them fastest in the morning, or the controlled mess of his desk, chaotic except for where it was all in a pattern— even his habit of keeping favourites of everything, something Ghost had always found as silly as it was endearing.
It was why, when he found him smoking a cigar on the porch of the safe house, Ghost paused at the entrance for a moment, confused, before saying anything.
MacTavish didn’t hold the cigar like a man who wasn’t used to smoking. Blue-grey smoke billowed from the end of it, thick and heavy between them, as he sat, rifle laying in his lap with the muzzle pointed towards the forest. In the dim light, the furrow in his eyebrow was dark, the scar through his eye deep enough to make it look fresh. He was sat back on the rickety bench, one boot flat against the rotting porch of the safe house, and the other resting on its heel— most of their gear had come off in the night, but they still had their bulletproofs and a few weapons on them. The air was crisp, the light pale, and there was a slight breeze rustling the trees. His eyes were distant as he blew more smoke; Ghost wasn’t one to hesitate, but he scrubbed at his eyes and forced his hands to stop their shaking as he stepped past the doorway.
“I didn’t know you smoked cigars.”
As far as he was aware, Ghost was the only person to be able to get MacTavish to jump. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it at least a little funny, if not endearing— he wouldn’t tease him about the little gasp, smoke spilling from his lips, or the way his hand flew to his rifle even though it was still pointing the wrong way. As his eyes fell in his, though, the tension immediately dissipated, in a way that no one else seemed to do when they spotted him— his eyes softened, expression relaxing, and if Ghost didn’t know better, he’d say he looked almost happy to see him, before his eyebrows furrowed as he took him in.
“What’re you still doing up?”
“Here to relieve you from night sentry, obviously.”
“Not for—,” MacTavish glanced at his watch, “four more hours, you’re not. What’s the matter?”
The only light was the moon, bright and full, hanging in the inky sky. It cast dappled shadows over the forest, deep green pine trees looking like obsidian pillars in the dark— distantly, an animal called, and neither of them paid any attention.
“I’m not tired,” Ghost shrugged, and made sure the door was fully closed before starting towards the bench, hands squeezing into fists. “Intel gathering’s always a load of bollocks. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to see you.”
He was only half joking, but MacTavish blinked, smoke curling from his mouth, and several emotions, one more unreadable than the next, before they were all neatly tucked away—
“Oh?”
He did that often, really; Ghost would say something, or do something, and for a second, something else would flash across his face. Ghost wished, sometimes, that he was as good at reading expressions as he was reading where someone was likely to strike, so that he had some idea of what he was thinking. His boots landed quietly over the wood, and he walked past MacTavish to sit on his other side, hidden from the door when he leant back and into him; MacTavish adjusted his rifle, balancing against the side of the bench so it wasn’t facing either of them.
“What’re we celebrating, then?” Ghost asked, only half sarcastic, as he looked up to the moon. The smoke smelled sweet, thick in the air, and stars hung above them in the sky, visible through the gaps in the roof of the awning.
“Situation in Russia’s gettin’ worse again.”
It was only an intel recovery op, but his voice sounded exhausted, a low rumble that washed over him like the tide over the shore. Ghost let it settle his jangled nerves, blinking blearily at nothing.
“They’re—” he gestured vaguely, with the hand that was holding the cigar, and Ghost followed the arc of the glowing end with his eyes, “the ultranationalist party’s gainin’ steam— again. More organised than they have been before. One of his lieutenant’s become the de facto leader, and he’s got all these— ideas, now, a whole manifesto. They want statues of Zakhaev up, want an end to democracy. The kind they won’t come back from.”
“They’ve done this before,” Ghost provided, but MacTavish shook his head.
“Not like this.” Another long drag, more silvery smoke. “This is different. It’s not been like this since last time.”
“Last time?”
MacTavish didn’t smoke, but he held the cigar with muscle memory, balanced between his fingers. His eyes kept that distant look, half-lidded, and he idly dragged his boot forward and back against the wood. Ghost watched the movement, and then watched the way his lips closed around the cigar, curling around the end.
“I think when they were done, they said it was nuclear testing,” MacTavish murmured, more to himself than Ghost. “Which was— stupid, because I remember Caro asking me about it, and I made something up on the spot. She didn’t even believe me.”
An owl hooted in the distance, long and deep. Another breeze rattled through the needles of the forest, and with it came the fresh, green scent of pine.
“When was that,” Ghost asked, racking his memory for the news on it— “what, four years ago?”
“Five years,” MacTavish corrected, and the smoke blew towards them, to the safehouse. “Five years, today.”
The safehouse was a little cabin, built with wood panelling that degraded in the years it had sat abandoned— Ghost tugged gently his gloves, before pulling his jacket up to his chin.
Not for the first time, he wished he was the sort of person who knew what to say, or what to do, when he could see MacTavish so visibly lost in his memories. It was just them, really, the rest of the team fast asleep behind them in the house— he watched the shift of the scar across his face, and listened to the long pull.
“So,” he tried, and leant further next to him, more to leech warmth off him than anything. “So, these are Captain Price’s?”
That, at least, earned him a surprised look from him, as he turned to look down at him.
“How’d you know that?”
“You— mentioned him once,” Ghost replied, “and I remember the guy. Reeked of nicotine.”
“Aye,” Soap smiled with the memory, huffing softly, “and he’d get pissed off to all fuck if you mentioned it. Wouldn’t stop him from smokin’ ‘em like a chimney.”
“Yeah?”
“Had these mutton chops, and this stupid hat, but I hated the smoking more than anything. Hated him too, paranoid bastard, but he was the only commanding officer who ever took me seriously. I was ten years everyone’s junior,” MacTavish explained, off his look, “made second lieutenant at 22 and lieutenant at 26. But Price was— he was different. He was my—…,” he trailed off, and then put the cigarette back in his mouth to bite down the rest of the sentence, inhaling deeply with his chest. Ghost could feel it against him, and tipped his head to look up at him, tilting his head when he didn’t finish.
“He was your captain,” Ghost murmured, as smoke blew between them, obscuring him momentarily.
“Not that it makes a difference,” MacTavish muttered. “He’s dead.”
“It makes all the difference,” Ghost snapped, before he could stop himself. MacTavish blinked, and gave him another long, instructable look; Ghost swallowed, but didn’t back down, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he met his eye.
Crickets chirped in the forest, but as far as they were, it was only audible if he strained his ears. Under the weight of his gaze, it was difficult to stifle the age-old reflex to straighten up— but then MacTavish huffed softly, a puff of smoke escaping with it, before shifting so that they stayed pressed together.
“It was on the bridge Zakhaev got killed on. And Gaz was…” MacTavish gestured vaguely, and slumped against the bench, suddenly seeming very tired with the weight of the memory, “Gaz was already dead. And Price was lying in a pool of blood, but he was alive. Barely.”
They didn’t talk about what happened to them. They couldn’t, in counterterrorism— even telling a therapist the worst days of their lives were risks to national security. The only people who understood were the people they worked with— idly, Ghost hooked his ankle around his.
“And— well, he gives me his M1911,” Soap continued, and Ghost seemed to remember the gun he always kept tucked under his bed in his frame, far from the armoury where it was safe, “Zakhaev gets shot, and I don’t know, I lose him for a second, I can’t see him through the smoke— but the next thing I know— the next thing I know, I’m on the medivac out, and everyone’s telling me he’s dead. That they never even got his body off the bridge before it blew.”
“You didn’t believe them?”
“He was too fuckin’ stubborn for the grave,” MacTavish replied, a dry sort of laugh coming with it. “And when he died, I don’t think he had much family. So I got the rank, the 141, all the things his sister didn’t want, and the rest of his Villa Claras,” he added, with a little shake of the cigar. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at it— the muscles in his hands flexed strangely for a moment, like he was fighting the urge to hold it tighter, or stub the entire thing out.
“Stupid, really,” MacTavish murmured, more to himself than Ghost, as he looked down at the half-burned cigar. “This was the last one. Figured— figured I’d be over it by now.”
“It’s not the sort of thing you get over,” Ghost replied softly. MacTavish shot him a look, and Ghost frowned slightly as he met his eye, crossing his arms—
“I wouldn’t get over it if it was you.”
It hung in the silence for a long second, and involuntarily, Ghost stiffened under the sudden scrutiny. Five years seemed like a long time, but Ghost knew the ache of anniversaries better than anyone; another breeze rustled, closer, and the cigar threatened to go out. It distracted them both for a moment, and rescued Ghost from the burning weight of his gaze.
MacTavish huffed softly, and shifted again, only pulling them apart so he could face him better.
“Here. C’mon. You ever smoked a cigar?”
“No?” Ghost replied, smiling slightly— “how rich d’you think I am?”
“You’ll like it,” MacTavish replied, motioning him to lift the mask— Ghost did, lifting the mask up and over his mouth. “Here, c’mere.”
It was bigger than a cigarette, and he held it a little awkwardly, like a pencil— too proud at the way that MacTavish’s lips quirked at that, amused, he held it tighter with a scowl, and took a long, deep drag of it, holding eye contact all the way through.
It was exactly one moment before the smoke hit his lungs, burning angrily as it stole all the air out of his chest.
The only reason he didn’t wake up everyone with his coughing was because he hurriedly stifled it into his elbow, the nicotine rush making his head spin. He took an angry fist of MacTavish’s thigh to steady himself as he caught him, nearly doubled over with how hard he was coughing, choking and spluttering so hard he was nearly nauseous—
“Jesus fuckin’— Christ, sir—”
“Easy,” MacTavish soothed, but sounded amused, a hand coming to the back of his neck and even that unable to hide how amused he sounded— “you’re alright, you’re okay—”
“What the fuck is in that thing?” Ghost gasped out, shoving it back towards his chest with a scowl and another angry spin of his head— MacTavish outright laughed, catching it in his hand and keeping the hand at the back of his neck to hold him steady—
“You’re okay— come on,” MacTavish laughed again, and Ghost shot him another scathing glare that only softened for the way the distant look in his eye had finally disappeared— “you’re okay, take a few breaths, and give it another go.”
“Like fuck,” Ghost scowled, taking deep breaths of the night air to get his head to stop spinning—
“You’ll like the taste of it— come on,” he encouraged, smiling rather blindingly at him where his face was inches from his. Ghost blinked, cheeks suddenly feeling too warm for the evening, and opened his mouth willingly to let MacTavish replace the cigar in his mouth— he held it properly, so Ghost put his fingers over his to hold it steady, flattening his tongue against the end where he knew MacTavish had held it in his mouth.
“Don’t breathe it in all the way— just taste the smoke,” MacTavish explained, softer, and Ghost nodded wordlessly, keeping eye contact. The hand on the back of his neck splayed reassuringly, one thumb tucking its way under his mask.
It was heavy on his tongue, and he could feel the warmth from where MacTavish had bitten down on it. The way he was angled, it was the scar across his eye that fell entirely into shadow, bisecting his expression; with another little nod, Ghost looked down, and took a long, deep breath in.
Burning smoke filled his mouth, but instead of breathing it in like he would do with a cigarette, he held it there. It was hot, heady and sweet on his tongue, and threatened to make him choke on it again— he focused, hand tightening around MacTavish’s, and let it burn up his throat, tasting of oak and leather. He was watching his expression carefully, and a little reassuring, Ghost let the fist he had taken of his thigh flatten, so that he could feel the heat radiating off of him through his palm.
“Tastes good, right?” MacTavish asked, and Ghost nodded again, smoke curling from his nose— MacTavish hummed softly, approving in a way that burned like the smoke, and didn’t retract his hand; he held the cigar steadily as more smoke curled in the air between them.
“Is th’scar—,” Ghost began, muffled around the cigar where he was still holding it for him before he drew back, “is the scar from then, too?”
For a moment, MacTavish didn’t say anything; Ghost hesitated, before leaning forward, opening his mouth and closing his lips around the cigar.
“Shrapnel,” MacTavish murmured, and was watching the way his lips moved with rapt attention— “from the heli, when it blew.”
“Always thought it was a knife,” Ghost replied, breathing more thick, blue smoke. It wrapped about them both, making the air between them hot and electric— MacTavish glanced up at him, and tilted his head, before taking the cigar to take another drag of it, not blinking when his lips touched the part where Ghost’s had to take another drag. It was burning lower, now, closer to his fingers, and he retracted his hand from the back of his neck.
“What woke you up, then?” Soap asked finally, pulling his eyes away from his to rake over the edge of the forest, still keeping up some semblance of keeping sentry. When the breeze blew in the right direction, he was still close enough that he could smell the scent of his deodorant under the smoke and the pine; Ghost chewed on the answer for a second, tasting the smoke on his lips.
“Nightmare,” he admitted, tone purposely even. MacTavish glanced at him like he could read it off his expression regardless; it wasn’t quite scrutinising, though, more a soft sort of fondness, like it was a well-worn script they both knew. He offered him another drag of the cigar— it was more intense than a cigarette, but he took the pull offered because it made the hardened edges of MacTavish’s expression soften for a moment.
“What was it about?”
“You know,” Ghost genuinely considered it, warm smoke pouring from his lips, “I don’t even remember, now.”
“Yeah?” MacTavish asked, eyes shining where they reflected the moon.
“So you were a lieutenant at 26, captain at 30,” Ghost began, “so— what, this has been your longest time spent at one rank? Downward spiral, sir?”
“Something like that,” MacTavish replied, and took another drag of the cigar, burning to the end in earnest— “difficult colleagues, probably.”
“Oh, yeah. Hear there’s some real pricks in the 141.”
“There’s this guy in a skull mask,” he agreed, and offered the cigar again— Ghost grinned, the smoke burning up his throat and the tip of his nose. “Bit too stab-happy sometimes, but we get along well enough.”
“You’re just lucky you didn’t meet the captain,” Ghost told him, matter-of-fact. “Proper bellend. And he’s got the worst haircut I’ve ever seen. Thinks he’s a punk.”
“I don’t think I’m a punk.”
“You act a bit like a punk. What, smoking cigars when you’re s’posed to be on night guard?”
“What the fuck’s gonna attack us, huh? An owl?”
Ghost snorted around smoke at his indignation, smile widening, and then for a second, that long, inscrutable look passed over his face again as he looked at the smile for a second too long.
And— and, for a second, Ghost nearly asked what it all was.
Because he wasn’t blind. He knew what it looked like, and he knew what the other members of the 141 teased him about, and he knew about the lingering glances, and the long, quiet nights, and the words MacTavish said to him in the dead of night, too good to have made up in some sort of dream.
It was just them. He could feel the heat radiating off of him, even through the gear, taste the scent of cigar smoke on his lips, and it was just them— but then, all too soon, MacTavish’s eyes fell back on the edge of the forest, checking for hostiles, and the moment disappeared.
They were at work. They worked in a field where one wrong move would have them kill themselves, each other, and everyone in the safe house behind them.
And, Ghost considered, MacTavish was the most straight-laced person he knew. Followed the rules, believed in his values, kept his regular habits and routines. The model of a picture-perfect soldier.
He wasn’t blind— but asking what it was meant asking for a name on it, and a name on it meant it all disappeared. Men like them ended up shot dead on bridges— if they got lucky, and the heat of the battlefield made them say and do stupid things. Ghost wasn’t blind, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look the gift horse in the mouth, to not just take what he could get, to risk what little he had over what was barely a chance.
“Alright— come on, pass it over.”
“You’re so demanding,” MacTavish grumbled, but did, handing the cigar over— it was burning low, threatening to go out, and Ghost took it between his fingers to take a long pull of smoke. “What, got a taste for it?”
“Something like that,” Ghost shrugged, and dragged the tip of his tongue across the head of the cigar before passing it over. He didn’t think MacTavish caught the movement, but his lips quirked curiously as he did, even if he didn’t say anything.
Straight-laced, straightforward, and by all means, straight. Between the pulls from the cigar, the night air suddenly seemed quite cold.
“S’only three hours left before we switch night guard,” Ghost told him, nudging into him gently. “May as well stay up, then.”
“You know it won’t kill you to get your eight hours a night,” MacTavish frowned, but seemed absolutely fine with the idea; Ghost couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk as he unhooked his ankle to make himself comfier, pressed up against him.
“It just might. You’d better keep me up, tell me more about when you were a lieutenant. Did everyone call you Soap?”
“Shut it,” MacTavish grumbled, shoving the cigar back towards him. Ghost took it with a sharp sort of smile, and pretended he couldn’t see the attentive way he watched his lips curl around the end of the cigar, the way his cheeks hollowed and his eyelids lowered as he took a long drag of sweet, heavy smoke.