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For a second, the biting cold of the nickel finish on the pistol was the only real thing in MacTavish’s bedroom.
The M1911 would get him in trouble if anyone found out that he kept it tucked into his bedframe in his room. It shone as he tugged it free with shaking hands, turning it over with trembling breaths, reflecting the neon green lights of his alarm clock along the edges of the slide. The bitten-off sound caught behind his teeth as he cradled it in his hands like something precious. It was familiar like a loved one, and he turned it over in his hands nearly ritualistically as he took in every groove, every worn mark, the way he knew the slide would catch and get caught if he chambered the bullet; he choked for air as he curled around it like it could protect him from the nightmares behind his eyelids.
It had lost the scent of gunpowder and cigar smoke, having spent five years out of the holster where it belonged. There was a fear in him, that one day he’d wake up and go for it by instinct, and it would be unfamiliar in his hands; more than anything, that was what MacTavish feared— forgetting the shape of it in his hands, forgetting the faces of the men in his nightmares, forgetting the sight of blue-grey eyes half obscured by thick smoke in a closed office, or the face he saw in the mirror, the one he grew more to look like every day, the one he knew that he’d someday outgrow.
Five bullets were still waiting for him in the magazine. It was like they were under attack, the way the entire room seemed to tremble and shake as he squeezed the release button, the magazine tumbling out of his hand and into his lap; like it could make a difference, he picked it up and tipped the bullets out, feeling the cold metal in his hands.
Five bullets in the magazine, two always missing. The slide that would catch if he chambered one.
There was a sound human skulls made when they met a bullet of a high enough calibre. It was wet, in a way he didn’t know how to explain, soft and visceral in a way that hadn’t stopped echoing around his skull ever since the first time he’d watched the brains of a teammate splatter against concrete. It was strange; he remembered the first hour afterwards, watching the seconds tick by, and wondering if he’d ever be able to forget something that had since practically become commonplace.
He’d forgotten the face of his teammate since then. What little he did remember came to him at the edges of his periphery, and in his place, his mind provided the faces of the people he loved— he’d listen to them scream, listen to them plead, listen to the wet shlick of metal through the grey matter of their brains as soft blond hair matted through with scarlet blood—
The groove by the trigger guard. The soft indentation in the magazine release, years of use wearing it down. His fingers shook too badly to replace the bullets in the magazine, and it scared him more, the thought that they might never stop shaking, that he would always be so afraid; but the next moment, he shoved the bullets in his pockets. The only deliberate movement he could manage was the way he drove his heel into the base of the empty magazine to load it into the pistol, the way his hands squeezed and found home around the grip, the way he pulled the slide back, chambering the bullet—
The slide caught. He knew it would get caught. He remembered Price complaining about it on a mission, hunkered over a table, the disassembled gun in pieces across from him and the smell of gun oil sharp; and just for a second, with startling clarity, he realised that wasn’t where he was anymore. It had been six years since that mission,
He needed to clean the gun. That was all, that was it, that was what would make it alright.
He didn’t want to think about what it meant that the nightmares were getting worse. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that everything was getting worse; what he wanted, he thought, passing the gun from hand to hand as he tugged on his boots, unwilling to let go, was the slide to stop catching— he wanted to stop thinking for a second, he wanted to feel safe just long enough to sleep, he didn’t want to think about the owner of the gun, or the fact that they were on the verge of a war Price had died trying to prevent, or why his room felt so empty, or—
Once, after his family had been debriefed once he had passed selection, his sister had remarked how lucky he was to be able to see the headlines before they developed: to be on the front line of the world as it changed.
He supposed, more than anything, it just represented exactly how impossibly far his family was from anything that he saw. It was a weight that choked him on nights like that, the impossible pressure of seeing everything falling apart and being completely and utterly helpless to stop it— he knew the gun cleaning kit wasn’t in his room, and his hands shook on his door handle as he pulled the door closed, the sound echoing across the hall like a gunshot.
That was it. Gunshots, everywhere, no matter how far he got from the battlefield— a timer began as one bullet was fired, only counting to the next. He was the one who jumped for the opportunity for selection, barely 18, he was the one who had fought and trained and bled to be where he was, and he had no right to complain, but he’d never be rid of it, never be free of the smell of gunpowder, always be the one with the gun in his hands as he stalked the empty halls of the base, moonlight shafting through the windows. If he was a normal person, if he was a better person, he might have had the wherewithal to take solace in the pale light, but his first and only reflex was to avoid it where it spilled into the corridor for fear of snipers— he stumbled through the shadows, gulping for air as he shouldered his way into the rec room.
Late at night, his soldiers knew better than to be in there. It was empty, deserted, and he made for the kitchenette, scrambling through cupboards for the familiar black case of the standard cleaning kits they were all given.
If he didn’t clean it, the gun would jam. If it jammed, it wouldn’t fire when he needed it— if it wasn’t there when he needed it, it would be worse than just dying, it would be watching his men die, watching his family die, because they were on the verge of a war it had been MacTavish’s duty to prevent, and he had sat helplessly as it all deteriorated, rushing through cupboards for the kit, gun never leaving his hand, and it was all he ever seemed to hear, all he could ever taste— gunshots, gunpowder, the heat of the recoil on his hands, his own blood, the blood of civilians on the streets, on his hands, sticking between his fingers as it dried, and—
“John?”
The voice made him jump.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the muzzle of the gun was pressed to the temple of a very familiar balaclava.
In the dark, the shadows cast across Ghost’s skin painted it like his eyeblack. He might have thought that was what it was, if not for the way one eye caught a shaft of moonlight where Ghost was tilting his head to look up at him, glowing silver along his eyelashes and the inner edge of his iris. They were illuminated blue in the light, so that the furrows of his irises were visible like the edges of waves over the sea, pupils dark like the night sky over it.
“Wh— Riley?”
His voice came out squeezed— foreign to his own ears. He realised the next moment it was because his throat still felt like it was caught in a vice; Ghost’s eyebrows barely furrowed, eyes narrowing as if he was gauging something, before gently, a gloved hand landed on his forearm.
It hit him then that the way Ghost was tilting his head was likely something to do with the gun he had pressed into his temple.
The shaking had only stabilised with the way he was pressing hard enough to bruise. MacTavish’s eyes widened, but when he tried to pull back, his muscles seized rigid, like the idea of pulling back was somehow even worse; either not noticing, or not caring, Ghost’s hand trailed up his arm, fingers interlacing with his for a moment as he gently prised the gun away.
“I—” MacTavish began, a new wave of panic washing over him as the gun slipped out of his hand, “I— didn’t— know it was you, I—”
“Relax,” Ghost cut across him, glancing down at the gun. He turned it over in his hands, expression only mildly interested, before squeezing the release button— the empty magazine dropped into his other hand, and as if to prove it to him, Ghost held it up between them.
“See?”
There was no way he could have known it wasn’t loaded; or if he did, there was no way he could have known if the safety was on, or if he really wouldn’t pull the trigger, but Ghost was preoccupied with the gun, turning it over in his hands, apparently calculating.
“What, were you looking for the cleaning kit?” He asked, like he couldn’t see the way his chest was rising and falling jaggedly— “Ozone left it by the TV.”
He shook his head mutely, words not quite coming to him, but when Ghost turned, he followed practically by instinct, as if he was being tugged along. Ghost shot him a sidelong look, but didn’t outright say anything; he followed him to sink on the sofa across the TV, as Ghost walked over to collect the gun cleaning kit, bringing it back to the coffee table.
The rec room had once been a conference room, tucked in the corner of the base on Credenhill, where it had steadily been taken over by the 141. Mismatched sofas and chairs sat in a semi-circle around the TV, an old thing someone had borrowed from somewhere that had the slight imprint of a TV show burned into it when it was on. It was dark aside from where the flood lights outside filtered through the gaps between the curtains, so Ghost slipped about like a shadow. He could feel his heat as he sat by him, pressed thigh to thigh, and watched as he shifted to sit forward and lean over the coffee table— ring marks and gouges covered the wood, as Ghost moved a pair of controllers and an empty cup to one side, and unzipped the kit to spread the gun-oil-stained cloth folded into it. The gun landed with a soft thump as he opened the kit fully, taking out the solvent, the old bottle of gun oil, the brush, and the cloth.
“When—” MacTavish’s voice caught when he tried to speak, as if with disuse, so he cleared it and tried again— “when did you get back?”
“Earlier. Before sunset,” Ghost replied, and for a second, they were both distracted as Ghost checked the barrel, and then squeezed the magazine free to place it down on the table. The gun caught the little light in an arc as he turned it over; an emotion he couldn’t name choked at him for a second as he watched his hands move over the metal, moon-pale and deft, to push his thumb into the disassembly button under the muzzle.
“I missed you in the mess hall.”
Something unnameable choked at his chest as the light caught the muzzle again, but was tempered by the way Ghost cradled the gun; the next moment, the spring came free, and he watched the way Ghost’s fingers curled around the slide to pull it back gently, the slide stop releasing into his hand.
“I wasn’t hungry,” Ghost replied simply, needlessly careful as he set it to one side; in profile, MacTavish watched the way his eyebrows contracted slightly, eyelids lowering. Like he could feel it, Ghost hesitated for a moment before turning to meet his eye, a momentarily flicker of something more vulnerable there— restless, Ghost’s thigh shifted against his, and mindlessly, he brought his hand to his knee to keep it still.
“I—” Ghost began, glancing down to MacTavish’s shoulder before blinking and turning back to the gun— “I didn’t want to see anyone.”
The slide came off the gun, and Ghost cradled it in his hand for a moment before placing it by the magazine on the cloth, and the grip by it. Wear and use had stained the metal, and the inside of the slide was a paler silver than the outside; there was a moment where the two of them sat quietly, Ghost’s hands still in front of him.
In the absence of his heartbeat in his ears, there was no sound but the soft hum of the TV set. His hand hadn’t left Ghost’s knee, and he gently ran his thumb across the divot of it, along the lines where he knew his kneepads dug in after long missions.
“Why’ve you still got the mask on?” He asked, as Ghost tugged the spring and the guide rod free; he shot him a sidelong look at the question, bristling slightly.
“Dunno. Why are you up so late?”
It wasn’t like Ghost couldn’t guess, between the gun and the fact that his hand was still trembling slightly on his knee; despite himself, he huffed, exasperated and unfairly fond of the silent refusal to answer, and sat back.
“Don’t know either. What’re you doing up?”
Ghost glanced up at him again, but for a moment, there was something crushingly warm in the way he met his eye. He blinked, a little caught off guard by it, but the edges of Ghost’s eyes were crinkled slightly in the starts of a smile, and in a way that nearly mirrored the line he was drawing across his knee, Ghost dragged his thumb up and down the edge of the slide.
“Waiting for someone to come bursting in here, obviously,” he grumbled, the slightest hint of humour colouring his words— “was getting lonely, sir. What time d’you call this?”
“Past your curfew, lieutenant,” MacTavish replied, attempting to inject something like authority into his voice; uncaring of it, Ghost lifted a hand over the mask to hide the soft laugh. It was like Ghost had caught something of the tight tangle of emotion in his chest with it, and pulled— Ghost dragged his hand over his mouth, like he could wipe away the smile, before looking away.
“You’ve just been sat here in the dark?”
“Don’t turn on the bloody lights,” Ghost grumbled, before putting the slide down and leaning over to reach the controllers on the table. “Here.”
Ghost’s hand closed around his wrist as he lifted his hand from his thigh to push the controller into it glancing around for the remote to switch on the TV. It was too bright as it came to life, and he squinted as it came into focus, unsure of where to place his hands over the controller, and—
“What— am I lookin’ at?”
“It’s the fishing game they’ve all been playing the past few weeks,” Ghost provided, and carelessly, leaned over to place his hands over MacTavish’s, guiding them on which buttons to rest. “Roach showed me the controls a while back.”
His hands, unlike the rest of him, were always cold without the gloves, and soft where years of wearing them had protected them from developing the same gun calluses as everyone else— his touch was careful, guiding, as he placed his fingers over his, leaning close enough into his space that for a second, he was enraptured by the sight of the tiny shrapnel scars around his eye.
“There,” Ghost murmured, softer than he needed except for where they were only inches apart; he pressed his finger into his to prompt him to push a button, “that one’s to cast the fishing rod.”
He hadn’t realised because of how quietly Ghost had set the volume, but barely audible music was playing, something soft and quiet and distinctly reminiscent of the sea. A soft rush sounded, and it took him a moment to realise it was supposed to be the sea; it was only a mass of blue in the game, his fishing rod bright red to be visible, but the screen swayed gently with it, as if he was really at sea.
“You have to wait until the bobber drops,” Ghost told him, close enough that he could hear his voice catch in the mask, eyes focused on the screen so that all MacTavish could focus on was the way the shrapnel scars arced around his eye, the way he knew they’d feel if he only leaned forward a few inches to press his lips to them. “Then it’s the same button.”
The bobber on the screen dropped, and Ghost squeezed the same button again; a little animation played as it was reeled in, a little red fish flopping around as he let go.
“Just like that,” Ghost nodded, “there’s a few different types of fish, but you just have to be quick.”
“What’s the point, exactly?”
“More you fish, the more money you have to buy nicer fishing rods,” he replied, glancing over at him. Their faces were close enough that he had to tip his head slightly to look up at him; apparently unconsciously, his hands slipped back to rest on MacTavish’s wrists as he leaned back.
“Better fishing rods mean you can— what, fish more?” MacTavish asked, biting down the urge to hold his hands there, keep him close— Ghost hummed his agreement with a little nod, and it hit him that he hadn’t realised how badly he had missed the sound the past several weeks until it squeezed at his chest like a vice.
“That’s right.”
“So what’s the end goal?”
“I think Sandman wants the gold fishing rod, because that’s the one you can catch sharks with,” Ghost replied, glancing back at the screen— as if he knew that wasn’t what he was asking, however, he seemed to consider his answer for a moment, mouth opening and closing.
“No one’s playing any of the shooter games anymore,” he shrugged after a moment, before sitting back slightly, so their shoulders brushed. His eyebrows furrowed as he thought about it, before, as if he was shaking the thought off, he shrugged again— “think this is just— easier.”
The gun sat between them, reflecting the swaying blue of the sea on the screen. It was quiet for a moment, aside from the sounds from the screen, and something that felt far too close to what had woken him up knotted in MacTavish’s chest; Ghost held his gaze, eyes reflecting the blue screen, not bothering to put any distance between them. After a moment, however, he hummed again, more to himself than anything, before shifting and sitting forward, MacTavish missing the closeness the second it disappeared.
“Surprised no one’s got round to teaching you how to play,” Ghost said finally, leaning forward for the bottle of solvent. The smell was sharp as he twisted the cap open, and MacTavish glanced back at the screen, pressing the button again to cast the line. “Diver’s got everyone chipping in. Last time I was here they were only about a quarter of the way there, but they’re not far off, now.”
“I’ve not had the time,” MacTavish replied, the knot in his chest tightening. “It’s— there’s too much to do.”
“You’re not going to get anything done if you work yourself into the ground,” Ghost argued, eyebrows knitting—
“And that’s coming from you?” MacTavish couldn't help but bite back, something about the vulnerability of the moment suddenly making him defensive— Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly, hand tightening on the bottle of solvent—
“You know I’d be here if I could.”
They kept having the same argument; it kept ending the same way.
Once— just once— MacTavish wished he had the power to change how everything seemed to keep turning out. Ghost turned away from him, frowning, and turned the cap over to carefully pour some of the solvent out.
On the screen, the bobber dipped, and too late, he hit the button to reel it in. He missed, and for a second, just sat there, watching the screen sway.
“It’s easier if you listen for it,” Ghost provided, still talking more to the gun to him; he picked up the brush to smear some solvent on it, and then lifted the slide with his other hand, running the brush through the barrel to clean out the old gun oil. “The bobber, I mean. It makes a sound before it drops.”
It wasn’t the way Price had done it, smoke escaping his lips as he muttered, grip tight on the metal; there was the gentle way he held the slide, the careful way he handled the brush— MacTavish had seen those hands physically rip out viscera, but in the dark, there was something about the curve of them that made him look like art, the kind of thing he could spend the rest of his life trying to recapture in graphite and never quite manage.
“How long were you up playing?” MacTavish asked, when he realised the silence had gone on too long; Ghost shot him a sidelong look, scowling.
“Not long. It just— takes a while to get the hang of it.”
“Just like the real thing, aye?” MacTavish replied, pressing the button again and watching the way Ghost’s eyes crinkled slightly.
“You’d be the expert,” he replied, putting the brush down.
“What d’you mean?”
“You must’ve gone fishing before,” Ghost replied, lifting an eyebrow— “you mentioned it, once.”
“I was twelve. Not like I remember how.”
“Muscle memory,” he insisted, ignoring the exasperated look MacTavish shot him to lift the cloth and dip it in the solvent. He turned the slide over in his hands, wiping along the length of it; for a second, the solvent would shimmer, before it would evaporate and leave the metal a slightly shinier silver.
MacTavish wasn’t sure if it was the game, or the scent of solvent, or the nightmares; he watched as the gun left streaks of carbon and soot on Ghost’s fingertips as he cleaned it, diligently working the solvent into the sliding mechanism.
“He— wasn’t a very good teacher,” he found himself saying, averting his eyes to the screen. In the corner of his eye, he watched Ghost’s hands pause for a split second, before continuing; the bobber wavered on the screen again, and he pressed the button too early, reeling it in too fast.
“He—” MacTavish began, pausing as he considered what he was trying to say. “My dad couldn’t fish, either, he— I think he just wanted to teach me.
“Did a load of things that week. Couldn’t fix a sink, either, but he tried teaching me that, too. All we did was block a sink and have to call someone to fix it,” he told him, and it was a memory that he’d never normally let himself indulge in, much less recount to anyone, except that Ghost had a way of gently tugging at his strings, unravelling every way he’d knotted himself to get to his core. “Taught me to drive, too. Think I managed to destroy the clutch on his Ford in that one afternoon.”
He cast the fishing rod again, the sound of the sea tinny through the speakers.
It was so— quiet. His nightmares were always an amalgamation of noise and heat and chaos, but even though he could hear Ghost’s breathing besides him and the quiet sounds of the game and the rustling movements as Ghost put the slide down to pick up the base of the gun, dipping the cloth in more solvent to keep cleaning, it was intrusively silent.
“The car got sold the same day the police gave it back to us.”
The screen swayed, a line of blue far into the distance. He tried to remember the last time he was at sea with Ghost, the two of them by the shore, but suddenly, it was quite hard to focus on anything. Besides him, Ghost slowed, and then stopped entirely as the silence stretched.
“So—,” he continued, a moment too late. “So I didn't get behind a wheel until after I enlisted.”
The bobber dipped, but didn’t actually drop off the screen; he kept his eyes trained on it, on the way it reflected off the gun in his periphery, taken apart across the table.
“I got my license in the Army, too,” Ghost told him softly, after several moments. He risked looking over at him, and found Ghost’s eyes already on his, the blue screen reflected in them earnestly. He watched as Ghost’s mouth opened and closed around words he couldn’t seem to find, before curiously, his eyes dropped to his hand, still on the controller, and to his own where he was holding the gun, and back up to his face.
Ghost would kill him if he ever told him he found it— endearing, the way he hesitated over affection like nothing else. He watched the sea sway in his eyes, listened to the sound of it between them, and felt the way Ghost pressed his thigh into his, far too controlled to be anything he hadn’t thought through.
“The papers might’ve been a bit fudged,” he admitted, voice barely louder than a whisper when it was just the two of them. Ghost tipped his head slightly, curious; MacTavish glanced back at the screen, feeling the way careful Ghost pressed himself closer into him.
“It was— after I joined the 141. Managed to get through without having to drive anywhere for— two, three years, but then Price wanted precision driving quals for everyone.”
“You can’t do those without a license,” Ghost pointed out, wiping blackened gun oil and carbon from the firing pin.
“Wasn’t about to admit to everyone I was the FNG who never even learnt to drive,” MacTavish continued, voice softening around the memory, “so I— I didn’t say anything to anyone, until the night before.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Ghost frowned, looking up at him in his periphery. MacTavish huffed, shaking his head—
“It wasn’t smart, but— I dunno,” he sighed, “I just— I didn’t want anyone to ask anything about it, so I just…”
The gun made a soft thunk as Ghost placed it back on the table, finished with the solvent. There was a moment of quiet where he just watched him wipe away the remaining solvent, rummaging about in the cleaning kit for a moment to procure a dry patch, running it through the barrel.
“Price found out. Said he was looking over my personnel file, noticed I didn’t have it in there.”
“You didn’t believe him?” Ghost asked, glancing up at him.
“The bastard skirted paperwork every chance he got,” MacTavish told him, exasperated even at the memory, “but— he found out, and he ranted at me for an hour, complained for another, and then— and then he spent the rest of the night driving in circles with me around the parking lot.”
Where oil had spilled along the sides of the bottle, the label on the gun oil had begun to peel; he tucked the cloth back into the cleaning kit to take out the other, oil-stained one, pouring the gun oil out on the fabric. The scent of it was strong, but mellower than the solvent, warm like smoke. Where it smeared against the gun, the metal shimmered, shining along the edges of the slide.
“Not like it made any real difference,” MacTavish finished, watching his thumb work circles into the muzzle, “but at least I didn’t stall in front of the entire team.”
Ghost hummed softly, somewhere between amused and something that almost sounded affectionate.
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“What?”
“That your first real driving experience was on a precision driving course,” Ghost smiled up at him. “It— explains things.”
“What things?”
“Your driving style— it’s not a bad thing,” Ghost insisted, off of the glare he gave him— “I like the way you drive!”
“You do nothing but complain in the passenger seat.”
“Someone’s got to keep you from getting a big head,” Ghost pointed out, and smiled wider when MacTavish’s lips twitched.
“It’s got to be you?”
“You’d get lonely otherwise, sir,” he insisted, rummaging about in the cleaning kit for a bore brush.
He didn’t know how he coped with his absence. Something warmer stirred in his chest at the sight of him, only shadows and soft edges in the dark, as he ran the brush up and down the barrel, careful like he never normally bothered to be with his guns in the field. MacTavish had spent his life chasing away how heavy-handed he was, making a habit of drawing and a career in demolitions to stave away his habit of holding everything too tight— but there was something in the intention with which Ghost always moved his hands, like he knew exactly what they were capable of, deft and precise and calculated in every minuscule movement. He suddenly wanted to insist he took the mask off, insist he let him see him, and he must have stared too long, because Ghost glanced up to meet his eye, and then looked over at the screen, and—
“There.”
“What?”
“There,” Ghost said again, more imperatively, as if he was supposed to know what he meant; and then, putting the gun down and impatiently leaning over—
He left a slight smear of oil on his thumb as he pressed down over his, leaning into his space to do it. A splash sounded on the screen, miles away from where there was the soft scent of Ghost’s shampoo, even through the mask, and he glanced up at him, their faces inches apart as his hand closed over his.
“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost complained, in the way that he could practically imagine pressed his lips into a pout. “Focus, would you?”
He could have sworn Ghost was doing it on purpose. The contact, and the way he kept looking at him, and the way he was handling the gun, and the way he kept making excuses to get closer to him, practically leaning over him to face him the way he was—
“You’re making it hard to,” MacTavish replied, only half a joke.
Several unplaceable things flashed across Ghost’s eyes, faster than he could make out. There was apprehension for a moment, but not fear; unsure expectation, in the way he felt him tense slightly under him, in a way he had to let go of the controller to stabilise him, a hand flat against his back— and then a flicker of something dangerously close to anticipation, to something he might even dare to call want.
They were standing on the edge of a war he’d fought and bled and failed to prevent, and he knew why he was having nightmares about it, why he kept waking up with the breath stolen out of his chest— because he knew he had too much to lose, too much steadied in his hands, looking earnestly into his eyes—
“Simon.”
“John?”
“Where d’you think this is going?” He asked, quiet enough that he could feel his own breath reflected from Ghost’s face. He faced opposite the screen to look at him, so the only light on his face was a sliver of pale moonlight as his eyebrows knitted, hands curled into fists as he pulled back slightly; as if it would make a difference, MacTavish splayed his hand across his back, defensive.
“What?”
“This isn’t— we’re headin’ towards all-out war,” MacTavish spilled out, looking at the faint lines of greasepaint in the crevices of his eyes where he hadn’t quite managed to wash it out— “this is— this the calm before the storm, this is— dangerous,” he insisted, borderline desperate as his voice fell to a murmur, Ghost’s eyes raking over his expression as his hand landed on his thigh to stabilise himself—
“It was just a nightmare,” Ghost replied, and several emotions flashed across his face again, eyes flitting over his expression— “what— what d’you mean? What’re you saying?”
“I—” MacTavish murmured, and he’d never resented the mask, but it was in the way, and his other hand drifted up to his face like it was coming home, “I don’t know.”
His self-control was hanging on a very thin thread. Ghost didn’t move back, but didn’t move any closer, either; his eyes had gone slightly wide, but he was otherwise still, holding his breath as if to scare him off. It was only the possibility that Ghost wouldn’t want it that made MacTavish pause, eyes searching over his like a familiar map for some kind of hesitation, anything that would let him keep the illusion of control, the lines he had drawn that confined him like a cage, the only peace he had left in the shadow of the storm he knew was coming; there was the soft lines around his eyes, and the distracting curve of his eyelashes, and, almost invisible in the dark, painted purple and blue stains under his other eye—
MacTavish paused as he spotted it.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That,” he frowned, the moment suddenly broken as he turned him by the jaw to get a better look at it— the dark had hidden it, but once he had noticed it, he was almost surprised he’d missed it. It trailed down his left eye, the side hidden from him as they had sat pressed together, a deep purple that disappeared under the mask before Ghost shoved his hand away—
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing—” MacTavish insisted, ignoring the scathing glare Ghost shot him as he sat back, the space between them colder than he remembered— “when did you do that? What happened?”
Where he’d turned back to face the table, the bruise had disappeared from where he could see it, the same way it had when Ghost had pressed himself into his side; he suddenly wondered if it had really been affection with which he had pressed himself to his side like he wanted to fit there, or if it had just been self-preservation.
For a second, it was silent.
“What happened?” MacTavish asked again, tilting his head to try and force Ghost to meet his eye. Ghost only looked away, glaring at nothing, and a tick of annoyance made MacTavish squeeze his jaw tighter—
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I knew you’d do this,” Ghost muttered, more to himself than MacTavish.
“Do what?”
His eyes narrowed, but Ghost stubbornly refused to look at him, hands closing around the pieces of the gun still littered across the table—
“Lieutenant,” MacTavish gritted out, but instead of anything else, Ghost’s eyes flashed angrily, and—
“For fuck’s sake—”
Faster than he could follow, Ghost reassembled the gun. The firing pin went back into the spring, which he pushed back into the slide, bringing the base of the gun back together to replace the firing pin with a loud click; it was like muscle memory, the smooth pull of the slide, the way for a second his hand flexed like he was going to cock the pistol—
“Because you’d do this!” Ghost snapped, glaring at him— “because I knew you’d see it, and then you’d worry, and then you’d pull rank, and you’d stop—”
Ghost furiously bit back the rest of the sentence before MacTavish could even guess, squeezing the release button to release the empty magazine into his hand. He scowled at it for a moment, squeezing it in his fist.
“You never said that— that it bothered you,” MacTavish frowned, blinking at him— “when I pull rank—”
“That’s not what this is about—”
“Then— then what?”
Practically forgotten in the background, he could still see the ocean on the screen, rocking gently. Ghost took several deep breaths, eyebrows knitted; he put the gun down to turn the magazine over in his hand, and it was only then that he remembered the bullets in his pocket, where he’d taken them out, shaking. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped, that somewhere, Ghost had put him back together without saying anything; he reached into his pocket to pass them over. Ghost hesitated for a moment before taking them, knuckles brushing his as he did.
“My number changed,” Ghost said finally, eyes not leaving the magazine as he carefully loaded each bullet back into it. They glinted golden in the low light, shining with the light of the TV.
“I know.”
“Your sister doesn’t.”
Five bullets, two permanently missing. Ghost’s thumb brushed across each one as he loaded it, before picking up the pistol again to push the magazine back in.
“Did— you not tell her?” MacTavish asked, glancing sidelong at him. With a click, Ghost drove the heel of his hand into the magazine, loading the pistol.
“You’d know if you talked to her,” Ghost replied, the look he shot him surprisingly harsh. MacTavish blinked, but Ghost wasn’t done—
“You always do this, you always— and I knew if I went to the mess hall, you’d see it and worry, and you’re already not sleeping properly, and you’re not calling your family,” he argued, hands squeezing around the gun even where his finger stayed safely from the trigger, “and—”
“Are you—” MacTavish began, bewildered, “it’s— Ghost, it’s not your job to get worried about me—”
“See?” Ghost scoffed, overloud in the silence.
The moon had shifted since they had come in, the slats that illuminated the room thinner than before.
Ghost looked at him for a moment, exasperated, before shaking his head and turning back to the gun, shoulders rounded. He ran his thumb across the slide again, inordinately gentle as his jaw worked angrily under the mask— MacTavish opened his mouth to say something, but then—
“And then you’re like you are on the field,” Ghost mumbled, not meeting his eye. He kept staring at the gun, before he seemed to notice that he noticed, and let go, double-checking the safety and putting it down on the table to fold his arms across his chest, sitting back.
“What d’you mean?”
“You’re—” Ghost began, and then shook his head again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. MacTavish reached for him by instinct, and then hesitated with his hand halfway to him, unsure of where to put it, unsure of where it was hurting— “you always do this, and then— and then you’re not like you are when— when it’s just us.”
The scent of solvent was still sharp between them, even where Ghost had put the bottle away. MacTavish curled his hand into a fist, feeling the smear of oil still on his hand, and wished he was less of a coward.
Neither of them spoke. He reached over for the pistol, and for a split second, Ghost’s hand opened like he didn’t think that it was the gun he was reaching for— he didn’t say anything to the movement, but Ghost’s hand curled into a fist all the same.
The groove by the trigger guard, the indentation into the magazine release, the gouges and grazes— it was all the same, well taken care of, but somehow, when he pulled back the slide and it didn’t catch, he only felt worse; beside him, Ghost reached for the cleaning kit as if he was going to pack it away, as if he was going to leave—
“Wait—”
He practically dropped the gun in his haste to catch Ghost’s wrist, placing it down with a thunk on the wood. Instead, however, he found his hand closing around his— Ghost blinked at him, but didn’t pull it back, and—
“I wasn’t going to go,” Ghost replied immediately, like he could see right through him to every secret he had buried. MacTavish’s chest squeezed tighter and tighter until he realised he was holding his breath; he exhaled and looked away, but held onto Ghost’s hand until he left the cleaning kit to sit back next to him. The silence lingered a second too long, both of them simultaneously unable to say what they meant, and unwilling to let it linger,
“Let’s just—” MacTavish sighed finally, suddenly both exhausted and too wired to sleep— “let’s just put something on to watch.”
“You were just getting the hang of the fishing, though,” Ghost argued, but he could hear the slightest lilt of his words, the way he did when he was teasing him— it was familiar like the scent of home, and he put the controller on the coffee table to pick up the TV remote, tucking Ghost’s hand in the space between them to warm it up.
“I didn’t expect you to be up in the middle of the night playing videogames like a teenager,” MacTavish huffed softly, pretending not to see the way Ghost’s eyes narrowed next to him—
“I wasn’t playing videogames like a— it’s called a team effort,” Ghost insisted, watching him struggle with the input on the remote— “you’re the one always going on about being a team—”
“And this is when you start listening to me?”
“Fuck’s sake— give it,” Ghost snatched the remote with his other hand and pressed two buttons to switch it back to the TV— “you’re hopeless, you know?”
The TV was brighter than the video game, and as he flicked through the channels, MacTavish watched the shadows flicker across Ghost’s face. The audio came in bits and pieces as he appraised what was on; a burst of conversation, of music, a sting of something that sounded dramatic, pin-drop silence— he pretended to look at the screen and instead watched the way Ghost’s eyes flitted across everything, the dark making his pupils wide and still somewhat hiding the bruise.
“Nothing good’s on,” Ghost complained, and shot him a side-long look before shoving the remote back at him. “You pick.”
“You don’t want to watch Corrie reruns?”
“I’m sure you’ve already watched them, sir, wouldn’t want to bore you.”
MacTavish huffed softly, but couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed in any real capacity; he adjusted his other hand over Ghost’s as he flicked through the channels, feeling the ridges of his knuckles under his thumb. A quiet swell of laughter caught his attention, and he paused before changing the next channel, eyes catching on the sight of slightly grainy animations—
“They do all the old films at night,” Ghost told him by way of explanation, as if that was why he paused— “I didn’t know they did kids’ films, though.”
“It’s not that old.”
“It’s pretty old, sir,” Ghost laughed softly, watching the screen as a girl ran happily across it. It was an animated film, old enough that the way they had remastered it for TV had scratched away details from the scene, the colours slightly desaturated like old paintings. Despite it, Ghost didn’t outright object to the film, the edges of his eyes crinkling slightly as she threw her arms around a dog—
“You know this film?”
“I’m pretty sure me and my sisters used to have this on VHS.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” MacTavish sighed, and then put the remote away to sit back, sinking into the sofa. “Must’ve watched it fifty-odd times in one month. My mam was sick of it.”
“Did you like it?” Ghost asked, but with a surprising lack of the teasing he might have expected in his voice; MacTavish glanced at him, before looking away and back to the screen, running his free hand through his hair.
“It used to be my favourite,” MacTavish admitted; something twisted in his chest at the way he couldn’t quite recognise the frames anymore, the way it was one more thing that had faded out of his memory, and the next moment, his hand tightened on Ghost’s as he leaned forward to reach the gun on the coffee table—
“In case someone comes in,” Ghost provided, before leaning closer to tuck the gun in the sofa pillows between them. He didn’t say anything to the film, or the fact he still hadn’t let go of him— and then, to MacTavish’s surprise, Ghost swung his legs up on the sofa so that he could bring his feet up. The movie kept playing in front of them, something as isolating about his childhood memories as they were nostalgic; the way Ghost had put away the gun meant it was only a few inches from his hand, and all he’d have to do to get to it was let go.
MacTavish could admit to himself that he was afraid of the unfamiliar; it was a given in their work, that unknown meant dangerous. What coiled with shame in his chest whenever he tried to confront it was that more than that, he was afraid of what used to be familiar; afraid of what he had known, what he’d recognised in his hands, until it got taken from him, or twisted beyond recognition, or so far removed from him he stopped recognising it, or—
Carefully, like something would break irreparably if he wasn’t, he felt the press of Ghost’s shoulder against his. He glanced at him, but Ghost’s eyes stayed firmly forward, stuck on the screen; he was sure he waited until he looked away and then several moments, before very gently, he felt him tuck his head into the curve of his shoulder.
“It’s not a bad film,” Ghost mumbled, voice soft enough to catch in the mask.
It wasn’t just the war. It wasn’t just the threat of losing his family, his team, his world as he recognised it. It wasn’t just the way Ghost looked at him, the way he knew he looked at him, talked to him, acted around him— it was the fact it was familiar enough to recognise and so far beyond the life he had tangled himself into that he didn’t know what to do with himself, how he could cope with it, if he’d even survive it.
He squeezed his eyes closed against the view of the film he’d spent hours watching with his sisters when they were children, and finally, let go of Ghost’s hand to pull him closer with an arm around his waist.
“Simon?” He began, turning so that he could bury his words where he’d pressed his pistol into his temple before.
“Hm?”
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t really know when Ghost had stopped tensing up in his arms. He was so used to rigid muscles and locked shoulders he hadn’t actually stopped to appreciate the way that even when Ghost paused at that, he was lax, soft in a way their lives barely ever allowed.
“Don’t,” Ghost mumbled, without looking up at him. “Don’t get— serious again.”
“You don’t think we need to— talk about it?” MacTavish asked, frowning; he could feel the way Ghost chewed on the inside of his cheek against his shoulder, feel the little exhale—
“You’ll want to know what happened,” Ghost told him, his hand brushing against the arm MacTavish had wrapped around him as if he was deciding how best to keep him still. “And— and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Ghost was never normally tactile, but he’d pick and choose when he wanted to be; there was something almost— reverent, in the way it felt to be given the same careful, purposeful touch he’d watched him clean the gun with, as if he was something dangerous, something breakable.
“You don’t want to talk about— this?”
The volume was still low enough that the dialogue of the film was barely discernible; the music travelled further, quiet notes echoing through the old speakers. On the inside of the cup Ghost had left, he could still make out the nearly invisible stains where he’d drank from it— the cleaning kit was exactly where Ghost had left it, the controller just next to it, the indents where use had worn down the joysticks visible with the angle.
“Can’t we just— can’t we just be like this for a bit, instead?”
When he looked back at him, Ghost was meeting his eye, looking up at him. With the light of the film, the bruise was even more visible, the edges of it just beginning to fade into a paler green before it was hidden by the mask.
It was a ridiculous thing to ask of him— to ask him to ignore what they were barrelling towards, the storm on the horizon, the pressed contact between them, blazingly hot. It was where he should have put his foot down, where he should have insisted they acknowledge it, because he could see it and he knew Ghost could see it, but—
“Alright,” he murmured, because he couldn’t deny him, not even for this, not even as all his instincts argued against it— Ghost went easily when he tugged him closer to his side, sinking into the sofa and against him, “okay.”
The movie had been on a little too long to still be a joke, but it made MacTavish think back to the way that Ghost had told him how the entire team had got stuck on a quite frankly juvenile fishing game rather than anything with real action or adrenaline, the wound too tender to press. In his periphery, he watched Ghost blink lazily at the screen— idly, he traced the seam of Ghost’s hoodie down the side, feeling the slightly raised edges of one part where he had repaired it at some point. Where Ghost had tucked it away, he could just feel the rigid handle of his pistol, tucked between the pillows; just for a second, he allowed himself the memory of Price cleaning it without staining it with guilt, and imagined how he might have reacted if he had ever met Ghost.
“I always wanted one of those when I was a kid,” Ghost mumbled, tipping his chin at something on the screen before settling against him. MacTavish blinked at the scene, a bedroom complete with tiny hand-drawn tassels on the curtain, and glanced down at him—
“What, a dog?”
“One of those massive stuffed bears,” Ghost replied, before idly rubbing his cheek against his shoulder. “You know, the ones they sell at fairs.”
The movement felt more intimate than it really was, and MacTavish couldn’t help the soft tug of amusement—
“You’ve had it on too long,” he told him, “s’why it’s bothering you.”
“It’s not bothering me,” Ghost frowned, stubborn even like that— MacTavish ignored him to trace a hand up the ridges of it, feeling the edges of the pattern and exhaling, endeared, when Ghost leaned into it despite his insistence. His skin was warm under his hands, soft enough that he wanted to sink his fingers in, press until the scent of him covered his skin like gun oil, so everyone would know where he had been.
“We could get you one. Stop at the fair in Hertfordshire. Think you’d manage one of those shooting stalls alright.”
“Yeah, and where am I going to put it, then?”
“Keep it in your room. S’not like anyone’ll see.”
“In the bed?” Ghost asked, glancing up at him.
“Where else?” MacTavish frowned, still running his thumb across the seam of the mask on his neck as the film kept playing.
“There won’t be space for you, then. We’d have to put you in the cupboard.”
MacTavish didn’t know what face he must have made, but it was obvious in the way that, when he met Ghost’s gaze, he could practically see the grin he was failing to stifle.
He didn’t let himself look at the bruise around his eye, even where he could see the darker edges of it, in a shadow around his eye socket; the silence was interspersed with the sound of the film as he rolled his eyes.
“You’re always runnin’ your bloody mouth,” he complained, and hoped it didn’t sound as weak as it felt; he let his hand trail up to Ghost’s jaw to tug his head back against him. Ghost snorted, unashamed, but only shifted to get comfy, his other hand coming to rest around MacTavish’s wrist, still on his jaw.
“Yeah,” Ghost murmured in agreement, and then his hand wrapped tighter around his wrist, guiding his hand under the mask to the soft skin under his jaw, “let’s not talk for a bit.”
Ghost either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, about how still he’d gone; he wasn’t used to it when Ghost was the one who seeked out the touch, let alone so shamelessly— he could feel the soft layer of stubble under his fingers, the one Ghost never seemed to grow out, and when he carefully ran his thumb across the angle of his jaw, Ghost dropped his hand and tipped his head back against him, so he could feel the stretch of his neck under his palm.
It loomed over them, like a storm on the horizon; utterly unsustainable to be sat there, hands warming on each other, pulled together without even the pretence of pretending it was cold, a weapon pressed between them and absolute trust that neither of them would even reach for it. MacTavish could have sworn that he had been sure, that he had spent nights convincing himself that it was survivable, that they were survivable— but the excuses for his excuses were stretched tenuously thin, and it was the moment before the battle begun, the precious split-second between when the hammer fell and the bullet fired, and all either of them were doing was ignoring it to indulge in one last moment of make-believe peace.
“Simon?” He found himself asking despite himself, barely able to focus on the film.
“I thought we just said no talking,” Ghost grumbled, and he could feel the vibration of his voice in his throat, an unfathomable amount of trust. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. How come her dog can talk?”
But he was so warm, and MacTavish was so weak; Ghost had a way of being so intensely real sometimes, so different from his namesake, that he seemed to bring the entire world into colour with him. He could feel it if he let his hand trail up, the heat at the soft, shorter hair around his ears, and the quiet ridges of his scars on his face, more familiar than his own some days.
They were headed towards all-out war. He didn’t know if it was what hid in the unknown that scared him more, or what he was far too familiar with, and tried not to think about the near desperate way that everyone in his peripheries seemed to be clinging to what was familiar, what was safe; the scent of gun oil and solvent still clung to his hands and in the air, inextricable, and the music and the dialogue from the TV was almost too quiet to catch.
But it was easier, somehow, when he found what must have been a tender spot on Ghost’s cheekbone, and ran his thumb over it mindlessly, listening to the way Ghost sighed, soft and content, and practically melted into him with it; he didn’t want to think about what it meant that the nightmares were getting worse, or what it meant that everything was getting worse, or what it meant when Ghost pressed himself into him and refused to talk about what they both could see.
Perhaps it was wilful ignorance, he considered, closing his eyes as he felt the handle of the gun press into his thigh; or perhaps, if there was anyone else in the world who could have it, anyone else who Ghost would allow the privilege, they would see it too— that for the moment, for the split second between the pull of the trigger and the bullet firing, there was nothing more important in the world than the press of Ghost against him, the scent of his skin, the way his breaths lengthened against him, perfectly at ease.