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MacTavish drags the boat onto the sand by the ropes, the waves pushing it forwards by the stern. Ghost is on the opposite side, pulling in time, because, apparently, he doesn’t trust MacTavish with this simple task.
The water is only ankle deep here and the boat is light enough the gentle waves would probably wash it ashore all by themselves. It’s quiet, the air oddly still, the gentle lapping of waves against the shore a pleasant white noise. There’s the smell of brine and seaweed, mild enough it fades into the air. The water splashes with their footsteps.
They’re in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere, crawled up a beach that’s nothing more than a thin strip of sand before a cliffside. His boots sink into the wet sand, then stick to the dry sand. He lets go of the boat at the same time Ghost does, letting it drop onto the beach. He heaves a deep sigh before dropping onto the sand himself.
The sea in front of them is a vast expanse of blue. The waves are gentle, calm, rolling towards land with barely any noise. Distant, like the sound he’d hear when holding a seashell up to his ear. A mile to the south, the bluff pokes into the sea, the waves crashing against it. It spits white foam over black rock, trickling down the cliff face like a picture on one of those tropical postcards.
Ghost rounds the boat and sits beside him. Rests his elbows on his knees and sighs at the same as MacTavish. Letting go of the tension after a job well done; watching the sight in front of them; enjoying the silence and serenity.
It’s the early hours of dawn, the sky a gradient of pink, orange, yellow. Thick, vibrant colours that form separate layers, vivid and complementing one another. They’re facing east and the glow of the rising sun is just peeking over the horizon. It’ll be an hour or so more until their transport arrives on a reasonably sized, better equipped craft than their own tiny inflatable dinghy.
There’s no one else around. Not even the sound of seagulls or bugs, off somewhere farther inland, perhaps, or still waking. There’s only the movement of the endless rolling of waves, and the gentle, vivacious shine of dawn rays. It’s quiet enough he can hear his own breaths; Ghost’s breaths.
Then there’s the rustle of fabric and MacTavish looks over to see Ghost pulling his mask off. His eyes catch on his face, illuminated by the morning sun. Pale skin painted in glowing gold, highlighting the colour of his hair, matted from being under the mask, covering the shadows under his eyes with a shine.
MacTavish thinks, as he catches himself staring, that he’s never seen Ghost in the morning light. He’s never seen the first bright rays of sunshine light up his features, accentuating the lines of his face and the subtle pout of his lips.
Sitting still as he is, he could be a painting, a portrait in impressionism, the swipes of gold in the sky behind him like brushstrokes and the swab of pink at his mouth like the touch of an artist’s affection. Or a statue, maybe, painstakingly carved. Tough to the touch but mesmerising to look at. With jagged edges from wear that are simply nature.
The way the light reflects off his face, his eyes glimmer.
“What are you staring at?”
Ghost turns to scowl at him, though his voice lacks the bite to go along with it. The furrow of his brows is more out of habit, especially since he doesn’t put the mask back on. Angled like this, the morning sun lights him up, like a study on light and shadow, lashes casting long dark shapes over his cheeks, the shape of his nose accentuated.
“You have freckles,” MacTavish says. He can watch in real time as Ghost’s cheeks flush pink. It’s only light dots over the bridge of his nose, faint enough he can barely make them out. They’d stand out properly if he were to stay in the sun for longer than an hour.
Ghost grimaces and turns away. Scrapes his knuckles over his nose, frowning at nothing. “They’re stupid.”
“No,” MacTavish disagrees. “They’re sweet.” Watches Ghost scrub at the freckles like he’s trying to rub them off. “Cute.”
Ghost turns to half-heartedly glare at him, flushing darker. He drops his hand with a huff as if not to drag any more attention to them. His eyes narrow at MacTavish’s growing smile, ominous, since he knows he’s about to make it worse.
“I like them.”
Ghost scrunches his nose up and looks back to the sea. Rubs the knuckle of his thumb over the freckles again in a surprisingly sincere, self-conscious gesture.
MacTavish pulls his hand away. “Stop it. You’ll scratch yourself.”
Ghost’s eyes flick between him and the open sea, but he lets him pull his hand down with little trouble. The bridge of his nose is redder than before, rubbed raw against the rough texture of his glove. Darker than the soft pink on his cheeks, but not as crimson as the sore spot he’s chewed into his bottom lip. He meets MacTavish’s gaze for only a second before looking away again, like the weight of his stare is too heavy to hold. Despite it, he keeps his hand in his lap and doesn’t turn his face away.
MacTavish takes a chance pulling his glove off. He doesn’t hide the movement, and Ghost turns to track it when his hand is half way in the air between them. Blue eyes, glimmering where they reflect the morning sun, follow it as MacTavish touches his face, flutter shut when he gently holds his cheek.
He replaces Ghost’s hand with his own, brushing his thumb down from between his eyes, coming to a stop at the tip of his nose. Swipes down the side and over his cheek, tracing over the light freckles. Connects them like constellations. His touch is featherlight so he doesn’t wipe them away, won’t rub any more colour from them. They’re faint where the scar across his cheek bisects them, rough in contrast to the softness of the freckles. He draws a careful arc just below where Ghost’s lashes rest on his cheekbones.
His breaths are slow yet light, almost as if he’s holding it, his chest barely rising. But MacTavish feels the movement of air against his palm, warm breath as Ghost exhales, steady and in time with MacTavish’s thumb trailing over the curve of his cheek, tracing the border where the freckles end, or turn so light he can’t see them.
“I’m not cute,” Ghost bites back, several minutes too late.
MacTavish huffs a laugh. The smile sticks to his face, far too soft and sappy, but Ghost’s eyes are closed, so he lets it linger before forcing it down. He drops his hand from Ghost’s face. His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes again, adjusting to the growing light as MacTavish sits back, shoulder to shoulder on the beach.
“Adorable,” MacTavish needles him just a little bit more. “Like a kitten.”
Ghost scowls. Scrunches his nose in a move that is entirely endearing, just like MacTavish expected. He wouldn’t be able to look away even if Ghost were to call out his blatant staring.
“I’ll fight you.” He furrows his brows, belatedly, and flicks his narrowed glare to MacTavish.
“A kitten with claws.”
“Actually,” Ghost emphasises. “I will actually knife you.”
Yet he makes no move to reach for any of the numerous knives he has on his person. His glare would look threatening if it weren’t for his flushed cheeks or his slumped shoulders.
His eyes track the movement as MacTavish reaches his hand out. Glares half-heartedly until MacTavish drags his fingers through his hair. The glower falls and he leans into it without meaning to, seemingly. He lets out a heavy sigh at MacTavish’s nails scraping over his scalp and turns to look back at the sea. Basically purring for him like a kitten, too, but MacTavish keeps that observation to himself. He only angles his arm better to support more of Ghost’s weight when he rests against his palm.
The sky is a bright blue, cloudless and clear. A gentle breeze has roused, blowing from the sea. The water is shining where it reflects the rays. The sun has risen nearly fully over the horizon, inching ever higher with every passing second.
MacTavish looks straight into it. Squeezes his eyes shut at the blinding light. The afterimage persists behind his closed lids, even as he turns his head away and to the side. Yet when he opens his eyes again, the sight is just as overwhelming as the sun.