Archive of Our Own

Riley never really kept going for himself. It was a pure fact that he wouldn't have stayed alive for so long had he not had people in his life who he gave a shit about.

At first, he tried to be strong for his mother. Did his best not to cry when his parents had another shouting match, tried to tune out the impact hearing his mother being hit over and over again had on his worldview as the years passed.

From the day his little brother was born, he kept going for him, too. He dedicated most of his free time to protect him from their father's evil, never wanting him to meet the same bloody knuckles and silver tongue. Their family never had much to begin with, with his mother being the only one working, and barely scraping by as their father got more and more irritated and snappy with each high; each withdrawal ended in smelly glass shards and broken furniture.

You'd think a man would have enough self-respect to leave his children out of the equation, but Simon suspected the Riley-bloodline had always been painted with violence and addiction. His grandfather passed away from his extensive alcoholism - or at least that's what he'd been told, and he'd always been convinced it was the watered-down, child-friendly version to keep a poor child away from that mess, but he'd never learned the truth - if there was a truth. No way to find out.

Whether the other family members had been too naive to see what was going on, or whether they simply decided to ignore it for the sake of keeping their peace, and a meager glimpse of a normal life to the outside, he'd never know.

They stopped being a part of their lives, at one point, leaving the Riley kids to fend for themselves. Maybe they did the right thing, cutting all contact.

It was a real shame, though, because Riley remembered one particular Summer spent at his aunt's house, painted an aggressive shade of yellow, with a big garden and a pool. A broken pipe had flooded the Rileys' flat, and the repairs took a while. If it wasn't for that pipe, they would've never had an image of a normal life in their heads. It was the first and only Summer that left Simon without bruises on his body for weeks.

When it wasn't nightmares or the thrill of an upcoming mission keeping him up, Riley's thoughts would go back to his aunt, and the pool, and he'd wonder whether some of them were still around close to his hometown, or if they'd moved away and moved on completely. Without him and Tommy and his Mum.

The memories weren't enjoyable anymore.

His father had been a violent man, not only in the physical sense. He'd had a good sense of people, unfortunately, was able to read them like books, and figured out things about them without them having to use words. Despite the alcohol, despite the drugs, despite the phases where he lay passed out on the couch barely responsive, breath rattling in his chest, he kept that ability until the very end.

Riley did everything in his power to keep his brother out of his reach. Demanded he go upstairs when he felt another fit of rage coming. Closed his hands over his brother's ears when their father was screaming obscenities into oblivion. Ran in front of him when he was about to be hit without having done something wrong. Watched him at night so he could keep him safe.

He absorbed it all - every punishment, every bout of anger that ended with things being thrown at him, kicks, punches, the cigarettes put out on his skin, and harsh words that cut deeper than any knife could the more often they came up.

Some days he ended up so exhausted and on edge, he didn't have it in him to even change out of his school clothes before bed. At one point he saw his grades dropping, and ceased to have the energy to fix it.
He needed all of it for Tommy and Mum. All of what was left.

He'd convinced himself early that his existence was worthless unless he could do some good in the world. He desperately wished for that good to be his brother. The little boy who did nothing to deserve being brought into such a depressing place. With their mother working tirelessly to make ends meet, someone had to be there for Tommy - and not only protect him, feed him, have him bathe, but also help him get out of that house as soon as he was old enough.

And Simon did his best. He tried so hard to keep up appearances for Tommy. He did his homework with him, studied with him, went outside with him, kept him away from their dad, got him treats from the corner store with the little money he scraped up on the street - anything within his abilities to give him a better future than himself, up until he became a teenager himself and his brother was no longer cool enough to hang out with every day.

Ultimately, there was only so much he could do until he cracked from the stress and dread of losing his grasp on Tommy. Guilt ate at him every day, knowing he controlled so much of what he did, where he went. He was the only true friend he had in the world, after his classmates decided he wasn't worth their time.

And not even that changed the circle of life.

It wormed its way into him slowly, in a way that didn't concern him too badly. His appetite had not been great for a while to begin with, and he figured the time spent fetching a meal for himself wasn't worth the effort, so he didn't bother.
Tommy needed food more than him, anyway, still bright and strong and hopeful enough to make it out.

Simon was sure he wouldn't recognise himself if he looked in a mirror, but each time his mother came home and looked at him with her tired, sad eyes, he postponed it yet another time. He'd only see hollow cheeks and a boney face that reminded him too much of the person that broke him the first time.

It didn't do his grades any favours, either.

Weeks later, he stopped going out with Tommy, energy-levels depleted in their entirety after school; he just wanted to lay in bed and rot - and bless his brother, he'd found a group of friends in school that he could hang out with... it's not like their father cared when they went out. It just wasn't ever right for them to come home at any time of day, especially if he hadn't had his dose yet.

He'd become so tired. Not tired from a lack of sleep, but a bone-deep exhaustion that never seemed to leave. His leaden eyelids hid the big, round doe eyes he'd inherited from his mother behind a squint, and his schoolmates got extra wary of him, thinking he was irritated. He remembers how hard it was to keep them open, and how it wasn't fair that even as a teenager, nobody wanted to be close to him, and nobody ever asked if he was okay.

'Life is never fair to anyone' he'd tell himself, and yet being left out made him sad.

He stopped putting up fights with his dad after realising no one was coming for him, that he couldn't even save himself any longer. He stopped blocking the attacks, and took whatever came his way, believing there was no salvation for him.

Tommy very obviously noticed the changes, but kept to himself, thanks to his new friends. They had been troublemakers it turned out, and had Tommy tagging along doing a bunch of suspicious, dangerous things - the exact things Simon had kept him from for so long, fearing he'll step in their father's footsteps, and the first time he came home bragging about stealing beer and a cheap digital camera from the same corner store Simon had bought all those treats from, with which they sneaked photos of one of their classmate in a bikini, their father had clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "Good on ya, son, finally learnin' to be a real man."

All of Simon's efforts had been for nothing, and he was a failure. Tommy soon enough became their father's shadow, joining in with the torment and slurs and the animals -

It figured that in order to be left alone by the monster, you had to become one.

Simon never had it in him, and gave up that same day.

His father had won, and his disgusting, booming laugh echoed in his head long after his death.

He was so cold and tired, had trouble falling asleep most nights, every little noise outside of Tommy and his shared bedroom increasing his heartrate, and simultaneously he was so exhausted that maybe at least it'd allow him not to think anymore for a few hours, to exist in blissful nothingness, or to be completely forgotten. But he wouldn't be that lucky.

His mother, bless her soul, had long since noticed something was majorly wrong with her firstborn son - call it maternal instinct, call it whatever else. He obviously looked like absolute shit. But she was so busy working her arse off to afford cheap groceries and make the rent, and she already suffered through enough on her own, he didn't want to burden her, so he kindly asked her not to worry. That he'd keep trying for her and Tommy, and that one day, he'd get them out of there. Maybe he took her hand to make the effect last longer, it had become a blurry mess in his head over time.

Back then he couldn't decide if he was glad she believed him. He had no trust to believe it himself.

And still, Simon kept going, and going, running on empty for months, until he collapsed during every sports class and had to be sat aside - teachers trying to reach his parents to no avail -, and kept going until his mind started spiraling at every hour even without external input, and the cigarette burns weren’t only from his father's hands anymore, and suddenly burns weren't enough to tune out the overwhelming meaninglessness of his life, of everything - he needed to remind himself, needed to feel the pain and see the bruises he deserved for not being strong enough, for failing most of his classes, for failing his family, and all at once - or maybe it had been creeping in slowly, over months of letting the waves of nothingness wash over him - there was the end.

He thought of it so often, in debilitating detail, that - on the rare occasion he was aware of exactly how terribly he was doing - he was scared of himself, terrified of what his brain was capable of. Those were the only times he considered trusting his sweet, poor mother with the truth.

He never did.

Oh, how much he'd always regret ruining their relationship by leaving.

His math teacher once reprimanded him for zoning out in class, and he must have mumbled something horrifying in a moment of brain-lag, akin the lines of 'I just wan' to die', because she looked at him, horrified, and he felt many pairs of eyes staring at him. It took him a lot of willpower to not shoot up and run out of the room in a panic. Because now everybody knew. Everybody knew that the quiet, skinny kid that haunted the halls at school wasn't only a dumb little pick, but also as good as fuckin' dead.

His teacher had ended the class early that day, took him aside for a moment, asking him if he was doing alright - as if there was an honest answer that wasn't 'no'. She handed him a little card from a stack she kept in case her students were troubled, asked him to hold on, and if his mind hadn't felt so fuzzy, he might have broken down scream-crying on the spot.

Instead, he nodded, humbled, packed the card away, and only took it back out in an unoccupied corner during lunch.

That was the first time he read the number. It wasn't a simple gesture, he knew it was an act of genuine concern, and Simon didn't have it in him to break his teacher's heart by telling her she's too late. She was just a math teacher, after all, and maybe if he wasn't actively failing her class, he could have pretended she didn't care.

He kept it. Just in case.

Simon managed to hold on through another few months of torment - through being told he'd have to repeat eleventh grade, and his mother becoming sick from stress, which in return worsened their financial situation. No drug money to speak of.

One afternoon, his father found out he once kissed a boy behind the school in eighth grade because apparently Tommy told him - told him something Simon had said in confidence, ages ago, and maybe if only he'd taken better care of him, it could've stayed a secret, but Tommy had turned into a smaller, less frightening version of their father, all thanks to Simon, and he didn't know what to do anymore.

There was nothing he could try to save them. Or to save himself.

That's when his mind unleashed the truly dreadful thoughts. Until then, he'd been somewhat able to conquer himself and tell himself off for even thinking death would solve a single thing. Kept reminding himself his mother would break apart, and maybe his brother would be touched by it, and saw the kind eyes of his math teacher in the back of his mind, and he resisted the urge to form any plans.

After this realisation, though? None of it. With their finances fucked and both his and Tommy's future doomed, he would've been doing them a favour if he disappeared. One less mouth to feed, one less weak human on an Earth that was not for him, but could be so beautiful - which could provide everyone with comfortable living conditions, if only humans weren't such complicated beings and terrible to and for each other.

During his last days, Simon was barely able to leave his bed - claiming he's sick, his mother even brought him soup. And thinking back, Riley remembers it was a terribly thrown together broth, but it had been made with love, and the sole thought of what he would've done to the woman that treated him with nothing but love all her life whenever she could, even when she struggled way worse than him, because she couldn't bring herself to leave the monster that created two of her kids, and killed the third before it was even born... to think about what his death would have done to her; it still brings tears to his eyes to this very day.

At his lowest point, shortly before making a very stupid decision, he dialled the number on the card for the first time, in a dirty telephone box that smelled of piss and other things he hadn't wanted to think about. For his Mum. For his brother.

His life didn't truly end at seventeen, but it had felt like a part of him died when the line went dead.


~


Now, at twenty-eight, mask on and eyes as hard as he can will them to be, he sits in an eerie storage room in a far corner of the base they’re stationed at - the room is barely lit and dusty, but the blinds wouldn't open, so they'll have to make do in here, with the stale air and uncomfortable folding chairs and the empty, rusty shelves pressed to either side of the walls.

It's isolated enough that no one else will be able to listen to them.

They seem to have a thing for talking in dark rooms. Riley would crack a joke if it weren't for the thousands of ants crawling under his skin.

MacTavish is sitting across from him, his face for once not in a state of everlasting frustration, but contorted into a kind of deep concern that doesn't suit him at all.
It's not a bad look, actually makes him look his age, but Ghost wishes it wasn't the sign of an intervention about to happen.

He knows it's not an interrogation, per se. It can't be, because if it was, they'd be in one of those fancy rooms with a one-way mirror on the wall, or there'd at least be more than one person in the room with him.

Riley doesn't know whether the talk will be about his recent poor performance during training, his reports that have become barely legible despite his usually neat handwriting, the untouched meals, or the fact that he unrightfully snapped at Roach this morning just because he asked him if he wanted to go for a run with him… however he apologised to him right away, and had multiple witnesses to confirm that, so he's right back at square one.

He knows he's been testing everyone recently, but he's been feeling off. Not off as in getting sick, like a cold or a stomach bug. It's just that nothing felt right, nothing felt complete, and on top of it he went on multiple, weeks-long solo ops he could talk to nobody about because they were classified to hell and back, and not even Captain MacTavish was allowed to know the details.

The isolation somehow reminds him of his childhood, and he doesn't like it. Neither the solo-ops nor the memories are sparking any excitement in his mind, but he's too good at what he does to deny his services.

Ghost had spent all of those ops working towards one singular goal: being allowed on proper team operations again. It was tiresome, and every call from Shepherd made his bones feel heavier.

To think that at the beginning, he'd liked being under Shepherd's command because it meant his actions weren't his own decision, and he could do as he was told and didn't have to think so much. But the General had soon figured out how his brain operated, and ever since used it to control each and every interaction he had even outside of missions.

Riley wouldn't describe himself as an abrasive person. He was haunted by his past and present self at all times, sure, and maybe it made him a downright terrible companion, but he didn't do badly in a team - he liked it, even, liked to have people around him that saw him as just some guy. One of them. If it was possible.

In most previous teams, Shepherd had managed to set up a reputation for Ghost, the antisocial and arrogant new guy, so most of his teammates didn't even bother greeting him in the halls. Ghost didn't have the willpower to prove them wrong, because he wasn't the one pulling the strings, and in the end he'd be stationed at a look out in bumfuck nowhere, Siberia, or sent to yet another blacksite that was supposed to be his last. He played along with whatever personality Shepherd programmed him into for the sake of his performance.

In the end, resistance never mattered, because he wasn't getting out of this. Not any time soon, not ever. There was only so much a dead man could do to save his own life, and Riley knew he'd be relieved for all but three minutes before spiraling into mayhem the moment he denied the General his obedience. His impeccable skills were the only reason he was still here to begin with, which catapulted him back to the storage room like a slap in the face.

It must have been this week's training. Riley knows the times were way below his usual records, and he'd stumbled a few times in between, which made him even slower, and Shepherd has already tasked him to do better, so he must be aware, but he'd been so tired he barely managed to lift his spoon during breakfast that day.

He wonders if MacTavish told Shepherd about it - whether to him he's just another replaceable asset that could be thrown out the minute its most useful lifespan reached its fair end -, then shakes his head, confusing the Captain because he hasn't even said anything, is simply looking at him with those curious, icy blue eyes that have the ability to throw a better deathglare than even Riley can manage in a bad mood. MacTavish wouldn't -

He is a fair man, as fair as business in the fucking military can get. And he always wears these rose-tinted glasses, thinking they can still save the world and make it a better place.
One could call the man naive or crazy for thinking that way - but really, it got him this far, and Riley admires his ability to believe in the good in people despite all the shit they deal with on the daily.

At the same time, Riley doesn't know if it'd be better for him to behave the same way as every other commanding officer he's worked under before, to simply use him until he was no longer fit for his current team. He hasn't figured out if he trusts the General, and maybe he doesn't want to.

MacTavish takes a deep breath, seems to steel himself for the conversation they're about to have.

"Ye've been calling a number. Every evening for the past week. General Shepherd asked me to see who's on the other end, said ye might be reporting to someone else." He describes it neutrally, and still has his eyes on him, neither mistrustful nor trusting him.

So he was tracking all the calls after all. Bastard. The rollercoaster-like feeling in his brain has him stop for a second.

"I'm not... it's just." There is a lump in his throat that seems to thicken with every word he pushes out.

For a moment, there is anger building inside him. Not towards the man in front of him, but because his fucking puppeteer of a General doesn't even bother researching the number he's known about for two weeks himself, and ropes his other superior into this mess -

A deep breath later, and he supposes it's better that way. If Shepherd already knew, Riley'd be in even more trouble than he already is, and he's sure his world can still get way, way greyer.

"You'll get in trouble." The words confuse him as he speaks them out loud, and isn't sure which train of thought he's referring to.

Riley doesn't know how to explain himself. He respects MacTavish, shared some of his personal information with him, even - the stuff that doesn't contain cruel details, as he's sure he's not even in the right to think of them too loudly. Simple things, like his love for cats.

For all he knows... MacTavish is just doing what he's asked of in his own way. He might have pieced together a thing or two about his shady business with the General, considering Riley can't always avoid throwing a fit about situations in hearing range - the man's mind is too sharp to miss the signs. He didn't make Captain for no reason, stepping in Price's footsteps or not.

There's no chance he'll think Riley is a mole, but his irrational mind hears Shepherd speak through MacTavish's mouth.

He considers lying, saying it's his brother's phone, that he listens to the old answering message to remember him some times - god, that's a bad move. Using his own sibling to hide what a mess he is.

It's either telling the truth or falsely coming across like a traitor.

Knowing too much will taint him, and take away the only good part of his life, because that’s what always happens. He really wants him to know, though. Needs one person to know that his entire existence is meaningless, that he ruins everything he touches, he'll take MacTavish and the entire team down to the grave with him if he just so makes one wrong move -

In all honesty, he doesn't know to put it all into words, not in an order that makes sense to an outsider.

How does explain that in order to keep them safe, in order to protect the team, he needs to keep going, to never stop performing, but he can’t do it alone, and yet he can't put any of them in danger, expose them to Shepherd's doings, show them what a horrible creature he is? Or how he can't even end up dead, because then in return some other poor soul will be his next attack dog, and Riley already died twice, and if he keeps slacking like he's been doing recently, maybe he'll be relocated once more, shown what it truly means to be alone and entirely at the mercy of one singular man -

Maybe, after all, he deserves it. Some sick and twisted fate that keeps toying with his sanity over and over again, and he must deserve it.

"What's been going on with ye, lad?" MacTavish tries again, more pressing this time around, almost impatient as if he's on a time limit, but Riley is too stuck in his spiral, and only lets out a choked noise that comes from somewhere at the back of his throat.

He's losing the fight, succumbing to his own weakness. It pulses loudly in his veins.

"Riley. Ye're scaring me. Ye're pale as a wall." MacTavish thankfully doesn't reach out to touch him. Riley thinks he'd throw up if he did. There's a swaying, deep nausea in his gut, a cocktail of impending doom gnawing at his intestines, because he's never told anyone about this, not even Tommy after he finally got sober and started being an actual brother once more.

And it only now dawned on him so intensely, how not only his performance has gotten worse lately. Somehow, sitting in a dark, quiet storage room, barely even exchanging a word with his superior, he finally realises how much he simply wants everything to just end. For the nothingness to finally come for him, claim his body and mind and set him free of his disastrous presence.

The calls were only a precaution to avoid the inevitable, and honest to god, they barely help anymore nowadays.

He can't tell some poor operator about all the shit he went through, isn't allowed to share most information as it's classified, and doesn't want to traumatise a poor volunteer who just wants to help people and goes through enough sitting in that call center, and in return their attempts at getting him out of his head and cheering him on to keep going feel recited like a school theatre performance.

Keep going. What a mantra. It's what he always did, still does. He simply keeps going, even at his worst, because that’s what’s expected of him, and he can't be a failure, can't be the cause of someone else's demise.

He thinks of the training he messed up, of the way he secretly hoped he'd slip or lose his grip and break his neck in some creative way. It poured enough for the ground to turn into a muddy, dirty mess, but it seemed his luck had run out after his birth. Meat had clapped him on the back after they were done. 'Better luck next time, mate.' And Riley had absentmindedly touched the back of his neck.

Another night, he watched a thoroughly unmotivated custodian clean the floor with bleach - unsure what kind of stains needed chemicals that harsh - and considered ripping the bottle out of their hands and drinking it for a brief moment - he took that back only an hour later, because Worm brought his Wii from his last leave and needed Riley on his team in Mario Kart. Yet during the entire game, on the inside everything revolved around the what if. They still won.


"Come on, now. Secret's best kept in the open." MacTavish is still looking at him expectantly, but calm enough it doesn't turn his panic into shame just yet.

He can't will himself to calm down, hard eyes lost to the scenarios playing in his head, past and present merging together until he can't tell what's goign on. His mind is falling apart, and he's about to bare his soul to his Captain, who thus far hasn't seen him struggle so earnestly.

Riley's heart is racing, and he can't form a coherent sentence; it's when he does the only logical thing he can think of, pulls something out of the inside pocket of his sweater with a shaky hand, clumsy because he realises he never took off his gloves, and holds out the same card his math teacher gave him all those years ago.

Time has weathered it, made the once thick paper softer than it used to be, crinkled the edges, and had it acquire a slight yellow tint - but one could still read it well enough.

Looking at it is as devastating as it is sobering. Eleven years of history in the palm of his hand, handed over to someone new for the very first time.

MacTavish takes it, spends a moment studying the flimsy thing, squinting at it suspiciously, until his eyes widen in disbelief. The horror in his face speaks clearer than words.

Riley painfully squeezes his eyes together at last, can't take the honesty, and his ears start ringing before he hears what the Captain says.

He's cold, he's sweating, and his vision brightens an unbearable amount, even behind closed eyelids.

The nausea returns. His hands itch for a cigarette. For the familiar burn of it, to prove to himself he's still human, somehow, after all this time, that he's not just reliving a myriad of nightmares over and over again, but he doesn't think he can move, and for a blink forgets he doesn't even own a lighter anymore for this exact reason.

When his vision finally clears and his hearing returns, he's on the linoleum floor - head cushioned on what he assumes is MacTavish's lap, because he scanned the shelves when they came here, and they're entirely barren. His feet have been propped up on one of the folding chairs. One of his laces has come loose, and when he moves to fix it, there is a hand on his chest, keeping him down.

He recognises his face above him even upside down and blurry, scar on his eye and all. Immediately, he feels small and embarrassed.

MacTavish notices him becoming aware of his surroundings again, especially the fingers on a pulse point on his neck that have him flinching the second he notices their slight pressure, and retracts them. The spot is cold at once.

"Riley."

"I never told anyone." Riley whispers, voice weaker than intended, but by god he needs a nap.
His words mean more than solely wanting to die. The weight his words carry won't reach the Captain in the same intensity they left his tongue, because nobody ever got to know Simon before he was forced to leave, or was allowed to build an opinion of him by themselves.

Riley doesn't want to disappear, this time around. Wants to see his current team win, wants to be a part of it until war takes them all together.

"Riley." He never imagined the man's voice could sound so soft, was used to his usual authority and wit, but decided he craved gentleness enough to actually listen, for once. He looks up at him, eyes wide, can feel hot tears gathering in them, and blinks them away, not ready to let himself grieve all the versions of himself that could have been, had he been a little selfish.

"No one." he repeats. It's almost too quiet to be heard, and Riley is ashamed of his own vulnerability. He's not used to talking to others like this, always presenting a version that's carefully put together to avoid catching the wrong kind of attention.

Exactly like how the Captain is eyeing him. A calculating stare, though not cold. Being read by someone else is humiliating, and whilst it had taken him such a long time to even get a glimpse at the man behind the mask… he's not stupid.

MacTavish's adams apple bobs as he swallows thickly and puts both hands on his shoulders. Cautiously, as if he's afraid to scare him into shutting up. The lines on his faces still haven't smoothed, he looks so worried -

"Do ye trust me?"

Saying yes would be a complete and utter lie. He doesn't distrust the Captain, he hasn't done anything suspicious or vile that wasn't out of absolute necessity yet - even then not done to him, but for the sake of the team, or at the very least it's what he assumes, based on his meager experience.
It's still not enough to unpack his entire life in a stuffy room, to a man who's supposed to report back to Shepherd, and he's not sure what he'll tell him.

For a second, he wonders if dealing with him will end up too disastrous for the 141. It figures, considering his background.

Having a suicidal soldier carry out incredibly important missions, letting them

Riley reacts, takes another deep, measured breath before his flight instinct kicks back in and threatens to lock any openness behind steel walls forever. They don't even know much beyond what Shepherd told MacTavish, and what MacTavish informed the team about.

He wills himself not to cry again, suppresses the urge to gluttonously take, and take, and take all the comfort and pity and sympathy he was never allowed in before.

"I can learn." he replies instead.

It doesn't earn him a smile, but a light squeeze, and the tiniest of nods. He swears he feels a thumb tracing patterns into one of his shoulders, but the moment is so fleeting - it's easier to pretend it didn't happen.

Comfort isn't a common practice in their line of work; Riley doesn't want to remember it for too long.

He physically feels well enough to sit back up after a few more minutes; his back pops when he does, and MacTavish helps him stand so he doesn't pass back out once the blood rushes back to its correct places. He brushes some dust off of himself and, huh -

One of his gloves is on the floor.

"I took it off tae check yer pulse. Didn't know if I had tae call medical or nae."

Thank fuck he hasn't called medical. Riley isn't sure he's able to deal with the consequences of his own actions.

He nods, just once, and it’s then that he stands on his own again.

"Shepherd?" he asks.

They have to find something to tell him instead of 'my lieutenant is suicidal and and I'd like to return them".

"Only thing he needs tae know is ye're not reporting tae anyone else."

Riley physically deflates from relief.

"But, Riley?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Does it help?"

He sheepishly shakes his head no.

MacTavish hands the card back to him, looks at it one more time.

"Listen. If ye need tae talk - or if ye just want some company… come find me. Or sit in my office alone for all I care. Talk. Sit quietly. Just… don't be by yerself."

Taken aback, Riley doesn't quite know what to say. He's got a feeling there's history behind these words, but it's not his place to ask, not when they barely know each other.

He wipes a hand over his eyes - the hand that's now glove-free, and picks the glove back up.

"I… might. Thank you, Sir." He's not sure he sounds genuine, but he is. It's an offer he hasn't received in so long.

There is no handshake, no salute when they leave the storage room and part ways; the air Riley breathes feels ever so slightly easier to inhale.

In bed, mask off and only the light of his digital alarm clock announcing the time, he still thinks of Death riding towards him on their pale horse.

He doesn't sleep easier that night, doesn't believe in a miracle cure of all his problems through talking, but there's a spark of hope in his gut he doesn't yet want to put out, and it helps.

It won't last long, but this once, it helps.