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“Ah, wait,” Roach cut across himself, hands pausing in the air as they watched. Ghost watched attentively, nudging him so that he wouldn’t trip over a branch— “you’ll like this one.”
Admit it or not, Ghost was rather good with languages— MacTavish knew he spoke pieces of Arabic, Russian, and even some Spanish, which he wholeheartedly denied knowing, and had even caught him once or twice parsing through a foreign language novel, not quite reading it but skimming over the words he seemed to recognise. More surprising than that, then, was the rapt attention he was paying Roach as they walked back to the truck, as he demonstrated— Roach was apparently fluent in BSL, and they watched as he opened his hands, tapped his middle finger with his index, made a dee with his finger and thumb against his index, and tapped his middle finger, ring finger, and the edge of his palm before knocking his forehead twice. It meant nothing to MacTavish, nor to Sandman, Ozone or Scarecrow, who were walking behind them, but it must have done to Ghost—
“What makes you think I’d like that one?”
“You say it all the time! You called Ozone one twice today.”
“Good point. Like this?”
Ghost copied the last sign, knocking his forehead twice, and Roach hummed the affirmative. The forest was wide and dark, and very still— moonlight cast shadows over the two of them as they walked ahead of them, intermittently catching Roach’s goggles where they were on his forehead, his balaclava over his nose, or Ghost’s glasses and the pale parts of his mask. It was deep in the night, with no light but the full moon, and the trail they were following through the forest was only visible due to the flattened shrubs; the mission was done, and they were all exhausted, so it was surprisingly entertaining to simply watch the two of them. He’d get huffy if he ever told him as much, but MacTavish had always thought Ghost’s absolute willingness to learn something useful, be it from a superior or a subordinate, was endearing— the conversation lulled for a moment, replaced by Roach’s confident signs and Ghost’s comparatively more unsteady ones, but if the way Ghost’s eyes were squinting around a smile under the mask was any indication, he was clearly getting across what he was trying to say— he paused, just as they reached the truck where they had parked it in a clearing, and stifled a yawn before asking.
“How do I say Roach, then?”
“I know exactly where this is going,” Roach immediately grumbled, as the four of them caught up. They’d hidden the truck with leaves, branches, anything to disguise it in the undergrowth, and Ghost made quick work of pulling it off.
“What? I’m not going to insult you. I’m just asking.”
“Watch out, sergeant,” Scarecrow called out, smiling, earning him a very sharp glare from Ghost.
“Here,” Roach replied, and curled his hand to mime it crawling. “Like that. Roach.”
“It’s the same as the one you said for bug,” Ghost pointed out, frowning.
“There’s no specific sign for roach.”
“So why don’t we just call you bug, then?”
“Come on, sir,” Roach replied, long-suffering, “Roach is bad enough. Don’t do this to me.”
Ghost responded by rather vindictively signing something. MacTavish had absolutely no clue what it meant, but it involved the head-knocking gesture again, and Roach groaned, defeated.
“I don’t get how you have the energy for bullyin’ him,” MacTavish told Ghost, as he pulled off the last of the branches— Sandman got in the driver’s seat, and Ozone in the passenger side, leaving the four of them to climb in as the engine roared to life. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Of bullying Roach? Never.”
“Move over, bug,” Scarecrow nudged into Roach, who sighed deeply, before taking a seat. “No, seriously, Ghost, didn’t you come here from that other mission? You were on base for all of three hours before we got shipped over here.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m on base,” Ghost replied dismissively, as they began driving— there was enough space for six people in the back, two benches facing each other behind the driver and passenger seats, but he had managed to squeeze himself between the side and MacTavish all the same, Roach and Scarecrow sitting opposite them. The only light was the moonlight, sifting through the dirt-caked windows— the mud was surprisingly soft as they trundled through it, and MacTavish stretched, cracking his neck.
“No shame in having a quick kip here, Ghost,” Sandman told him, turning over his shoulder— “go on. Three hours til we get to base. We can source a blanket from somewhere.”
“Turn around and drive before you wrap us around a tree,” Ghost scowled, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You must be racking up the hazard leave,” Ozone remarked, turning in the passenger seat and throwing an arm over the back of his seat— “why’d they have you so busy, anyway?”
“That’s classified.”
“You can’t use that line on us,” Roach complained, stretching out in his seat.
“Maybe when you become a lieutenant, and they’ve got you as busy as me, you’ll find out,” Ghost snarked back, sitting back in his seat. “Maybe they’ll give you a better callsign while you’re there, Bug.”
MacTavish knocked his knee into Ghost’s, and decidedly kept his face even at the way Ghost’s nose had scrunched up with his scowl.
“Play nice.”
“The point is,” Ghost declared over the engine, glaring at them all and daring them to say anything, “I’m not tired, and I’ll sleep when I’m back at base.”
It took all of six minutes of bumping their way onto the main road for Ghost to pass out cold against MacTavish’s shoulder.
“Like a light,” Scarecrow stage whispered, where he sat across from him. Roach, very curious, reached his leg to nudge the toe of it into Ghost’s shin; MacTavish shot him a scathing look, and he quickly dropped it, sitting up straight.
“Leave it. He’s got to have been up for days by now.”
“It’s really all classified?” Ozone asked, apparently unable to help the curiosity. “Where he’s being sent off to, all the time?”
“I’m not even cleared for half of it,” MacTavish replied, as Ghost’s head lolled against him, sunglasses askew against his shoulder.
The truck had made its way onto the road, the soft mud replaced by steady tarmac that snaked through the forest. On either side, they could make out moonlight-dappled trees as they sped by, and aside from the whine of the engine, it was quiet. The sharp scent of pine had wafted into the vehicle, and Sandman had switched on the radio, something local in a language that none of them understood. It wasn’t that MacTavish minded Ghost catching sleep where he could— really, all things considered, it was stupid how much he liked the heavy weight of him against him, the long, even breaths catching in the mask as the truck rocked them, the absolute trust in the moment— but it was uncharacteristic of Ghost to do it in front of everyone else, immediately after a mission, or even to sleep so deeply surrounded by others in the bumpy truck. Ghost liked to keep an eye on the road ahead, talking through the mission until MacTavish finally felt the weight of the adrenaline lift— he’d just come back from a week away in a classified location, though, only new bruises spiralling up his wrist and disappearing under his hoodie where MacTavish had spotted them in the kitchen before the mission, sharing a tea.
Occasionally, when Ghost was away for a particularly long time, MacTavish would catch sight of certain headlines, or hear rumours of assassinations through the grapevine, and wonder. Ghost remained stubbornly tight-lipped about where he was deployed, what he was made to do— it was only new bruises, new scars, and an exhaustion that seemed to hang off his shoulders like an aching weight that he seemed to take home with him.
It took a surprising amount of self-control to not wrap an arm around Ghost to keep him steady as the truck rocked over the road. Ghost slept so sporadically that when he did manage to rest, he was out like a light, entirely unaware of the world around him— his breathing stayed soft, inches from his chest, the rise and fall of his shoulders even and steady. All it would take for his lips to be pressed against his forehead would be turning his head slightly to his left— he waved off the thought mentally, hands squeezing around air into fists.
It was a different, unreasonable thought, imagining a world where it was normal, where he didn’t have to force himself to focus on details, mission reports, and logistics when Ghost was sleeping soundly on his shoulder— but he didn’t quite manage to fight off the part of himself that wanted to let himself enjoy it, let himself enjoy the heavy weight that was Ghost, heat bleeding through the contact where he always ran warm.
It was why, for several moments, MacTavish didn’t even notice the four very amused looks he was being given.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ozone replied evenly. “He’s a lot nicer when he’s asleep.”
“Ghost,” Scarecrow stage-whispered again. “Ghost.”
“Quit it.”
“You’re very still, sir,” Sandman pointed out, amused where he glanced at them in the rearview— “that’s— thoughtful of you.”
“Keep your eyes on the road, lieutenant,” MacTavish grumbled, glaring at him. He could have sworn Sandman rolled his eyes, but with endearment rather than contempt—
“He doesn’t mean anything bad by it,” Ozone told him, “it’s nice of you, sir! That’s what he means. It’s nice.”
“You really are still,” Scarecrow remarked, as the car wobbled again— “you’re like a statue. We could balance things on you. Roach, give me your canteen.”
“I don’t want to die,” Roach replied weakly, giving MacTavish a rather wary look.
“Good call, sergeant.”
“He’s not going to kill you,” Scarecrow laughed him off, as MacTavish glowered at them all.
“Can it, the lot of you.”
“It’s alright, sir,” Ozone reassured him, tone deceptively earnest. “We’ll keep it down. Wouldn’t want to wake him when he’s sleeping so soundly. Tactical pillow, and all that.”
“Ozone?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
His misery earned him a little titter of laughter around the truck, which only made Ghost murmur something indecipherable and press them closer— MacTavish knew for a fact that when Ghost slept alone, he was equally as clingy to whatever blankets or pillows he had around him, and the trust with the way he relaxed against him made his chest ache, even if it didn’t help his case in the moment at all.
The radio was still playing— it had switched from music to some sort of interview, complete with outdated riffs to highlight apparent punchlines. Behind Ghost’s head, the forest rushed by; intermittently, a slat of moonlight would fall over his face, one eye visible where his glasses had been pressed askew. He carefully reached up, tugging them off by the bridge of the nose to keep from smudging the glass, and caught Roach’s eye as he folded them up; he had the good sense to avert his eyes as he tucked them safely in his own vest, Ghost’s head lolling against him with the little movement. It was just enough pressure that his arm started tingling, and he wiggled his fingers to keep the blood flowing.
“Alright, sir?” Scarecrow asked innocently, catching the movement.
“Fine,” MacTavish gritted out. “Mind your own, sergeant.”
“Come on, captain,” Sandman grinned, glancing at them in the rearview again. “We’re only kidding. It’s nice, really.”
“Lieutenant.”
“I’m being serious,” Sandman replied, turning back to face the road. It was a gunmetal grey ribbon ahead of them, only their headlights catching the condensation on the road— “Ghost’s not usually— well,” he cut himself off, apparently considering his words. “Ghost’s— Ghost. It’s nice that he trusts us, is all.”
He glanced over at him, but Sandman was preoccupied with the road— Scarecrow gave a little hum of assent, and sat back in his seat.
The radio station wobbled, and kept going, catching the tail end of a warm peal of laughter shared between them both, crunchy over the wobbling signal. A clearing opened for a moment on the right side of the truck, so that for a moment, MacTavish had a view of the moon where it hung low in the sky, illuminating what little of Ghost’s face that was visible, and casting long shadows from his eyelashes over his cheeks.
The prickling feeling that came with being surrounded by eyes watching him didn’t abate, and he squeezed his hands into fists. Ghost would wake up as soon as the truck stopped, and that would be it— all MacTavish would be left with would be the memory of soft, hot breaths fanning over his neck, the steady sensation of his breaths against him. He’d already made that decision, and it had no right to ache the way it did— but he tried not to feel too guilty for trying his very best to burn it into his memory, for the way he almost hoped Ghost’s gear was digging marks into his skin.
“None of you bring this up while he’s awake,” MacTavish told them all, glaring between them as he wiggled his fingers again.
“Course, sir. We’re not suicidal,” Roach nodded, the little smile audible in his voice; Ghost stirred for a moment, but instead of waking, he stretched out like a cat. He wrapped a hand around MacTavish’s arm to keep him still, vice-tight even in sleep, and resettled his head in the dip of his shoulder— they waited with bated breath, but then his breathing fell even, and he sighed his way back into sleep.
“And it helps that he looks really comfy with you, sir,” Ozone added, earning him a sharp kick from Sandman.
“Ow!”
“Did you not hear the captain? Shut the fuck up!”
Roach snorted at that, earning him a jab in the ribs from Scarecrow, enough to make him wheeze— but the truck rocked at just the wrong moment, and Ghost’s head rocked, dislodged, and—
At the very least, everyone had the good sense to look away as Ghost blinked himself awake, scowling preemptively. He glared around at everyone first, before lazily lifting his head off his shoulder and reaching up to check for his glasses; it was only then he seemed to realise how exactly he had fallen asleep, and sat up straight a little too fast, dropping his arm like he had been branded. Sandman innocently fixed his rearview mirror, as Ghost sat up and looked between where MacTavish was pumping his fist to encourage blood flow, where everyone was avoiding his eye, and seemed to come to the conclusion as to what had happened all by himself.
“Sorry,” Ghost muttered, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as apparent embarrassment coloured his expression. He didn’t meet anyone’s eye, staring out the dirt-caked glass— out of the corner of his eye, Scarecrow made a face, the humour of the moment dissipating for a moment.
The teasing about it all was annoying, but good-natured, and MacTavish knew full well they’d likely drop it in a moment if asked; as much fun as they were poking, no one seemed to be taking any particular delight in the way Ghost was sitting very quietly, decidedly sitting up against his own weight. He stifled a yawn into his elbow, and then glanced about in his vest, looking for his glasses and coming up empty. Something about the way he did it, inconspicuous and unobtrusive, made MacTavish’s chest ache in a certain way.
Unprofessional, was what that quiet voice in his head chided him for immediately. Not proper for someone of his stature, or his rank.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” he replied, wrapping an arm around Ghost’s and tugging him back. He studiously ignored the five absolutely stunned looks it earned him, ignoring the way want seemed to explode under his skin, warm and desperate— “c’mon, go back to sleep.”
The way Sandman had readjusted the mirror hid his face, but he did see the way Ozone looked at him out the corner of his eye— Scarecrow was stroking the stubble on his chin to disguise a smile, ostensibly deep in thought, while Roach had become intensely distracted by the straps on his vest.
“Whatever you want, sir,” Ghost grinned, audibly on the verge of laughter as he beamed up at him with something that looked dangerously fond in his eyes, irises a thin blue ring around dark pupils in the night. He wrapped his arm around his again, in a movement that looked like he was teasing him if not for the way MacTavish could feel the way he physically relaxed against him, and pressed them together.
“Comfy, lieutenant?” Scarecrow asked, tilting his head as he watched.
“What’s that saying— snug as a bug? Not that you’d know,” Ghost added, with a mean little kick to Roach’s shin.
“Ow— I didn’t even say anything!”
Ghost signed something, to which Roach signed several angry things back, scowling; in response, Ghost snorted around a laugh, which he stifled into a loose fist, and then the exhale where it ended stretched into a yawn— it melted into the music that had started up again on the radio as he tucked them together, long and tired.
He didn’t miss the silent, shared eye contact passed around the truck, and glared angrily at it to make sure no one said anything— Ghost didn’t seem quite at ease, stiff by his side, so he gave him another little squeeze until the tension melted away.
“Mm,” Ghost sighed, quiet enough that no one but Soap could hear him over the engine— “thanks, Johnny.”
He’d fight through gunfire, bombs, firefights and war for Ghost— it stood to reason, then, that he’d tolerate the teasing little looks they kept shooting him in the back of the truck too. He kept his face still throughout it all, and even let Scarecrow make a big show of balancing Roach’s pilfered flashlight on his stock-still knee for a few moments before threatening him with latrine duty, because he could feel the near silent way Ghost laughed against his shoulder, eyes still closed, a secret only for him to know.
He’d do worse for him, after all. The pins and needles travelled all the way up his arm and gave way to numbness by the time the moon finally began dipping behind the trees; Ghost was fast asleep on his arm by that point, though, relaxed in a way he never was when he was awake, music playing softly in the truck— warmth curled through where they were pressed together like hot sparks off a detonator as soft breaths rose and fall evenly against his chest.