Archive of Our Own

He’d noticed it when they’d killed the informant.

There was a way Ghost breathed when he was trying to act like he wasn’t struggling to control the way he was pulling in air: like someone had their hands around his throat, and he was trying to prove he wasn’t scared.

He’d been the one to step up when MacTavish had separated the informant, the one who had silently picked up the blowtorch as MacTavish had barked orders at Roach. He hadn’t said a word all the way through it, made no sound other than to laugh— not the soft, earnest way he laughed when he really found something funny, but the way MacTavish had only heard when he was upset; like it was being ripped out of him, like it was the closest thing to baring his teeth he could manage.

MacTavish would never make him interrogate a target. There was no doubt in his mind that, when Ghost picked up the blowtorch, when he’d rounded on the informant, when he’d waved the blue flame in his face as if it wasn’t the identical blue of his eyes behind the sunglasses, that Ghost had been acting on his own will. 

He’d noticed it, though. The handcuffs they’d put on the man cut into his skin in nearly identical patterns to the darkened marks on Ghost’s wrists. MacTavish already knew what the scar would look like when Ghost pressed the knife threateningly into his neck. And when he gave up the information, and Ghost shot him dead, he made the point of firing directly between his eyes— brutal, terrifying, and mercifully fast. 

Alejandro Rojas had been different. The informant had spilled everything they needed to know the moment Ghost applied any real force in the dark of the private garage. But Rojas had been cartel muscle even before his time in the KGB— he hadn’t been afraid when he was the one overseeing torture, carrying out himself, hadn’t even cared before supplying guns to gun down civilians at an airport. The sun beat down on their heads as they had crowded around him, dazed from the takeout, the light sharper and more condemning than anything else. 

He’d never actually asked Ghost to do anything. Ghost had stepped forward, and the entire team had shifted around to accommodate an expert at work— someone who had intimate knowledge of what it took to tear someone apart. 

Silent now, Rojas was on his knees, arms outstretched besides him where they were cuffed to the horizontal bar of the window frame they had kept him on, the iron rusting above his head. He wasn’t dead, and the occasional agonal breath rocked his frame; his face was pale, smeared in glossy, red blood that matched the wires of the jumper cable Ghost had affixed to the bar, the teeth of the clips peeling off the rust. His entire body shook with the residual electricity like Ghost’s did when he had a nightmare— with his head lolling on his chest and his arms stretched out besides him, he suddenly made MacTavish think of the images on crucifixes. 

MacTavish supposed his hands were clean of it. He hadn’t asked— Ghost hadn’t even volunteered, he’d taken over the part of the interrogator with the same reflexive movement of falling into formation. He had no reason to feel anything other than being pleased at one less job on his hands, satisfaction at what amounted to a successful intel grab. 

It was good. It showed exactly how well they had fallen into their professional distance. If he acted like he cared about Ghost, he would have said something, would have intervened— it was the right choice, and he knew it. 

And yet, he couldn’t stop focusing on it. Price had always been able to focus on the big picture, getting their hands dirty to keep the world clean; Soap had never grown out of the childish impulse to focus on the tiny details, the things in his hands, what he could fix.

The prisoner Rojas had mentioned was in a gulag miles and miles away. There was a part of his mind that immediately began cataloguing it, planning for it, preparing to mobilise and get to that data point as soon as feasible; the quieter part of his mind, though, and the only one that he could focus on, focused on Ghost’s breathing as if it was his own.

In for four seconds. Hold for four seconds. He always staggered on the breath out, like his body was desperate to expel whatever was choking it. Someone who didn’t know him would mistake it for adrenaline, for excitement— someone who knew him like MacTavish did, who watched him like MacTavish did, would notice the little stagger when he stepped back once he was done, as if he had forgotten what the floor under him looked like.

“We’ve got what we needed out of him,” Sandman was the one who broke the silence, glancing over at MacTavish. “Should we get rid of him?” 

He knew he shouldn’t have risked it when he was being watched for a reaction— but he glanced sidelong at Ghost, searching his silhouette for an answer.

“Leave it,” he replied, when nothing came. “Let the cartels deal with him.” 

He didn’t do anything about it. He noticed it, turned it over in his head over and over, but didn’t do anything at all, too aware of all the eyes on them; like it was his breath in Ghost’s lungs, though, he noticed the tiny, nearly invisible hitch in his breath when behind them, Roach lifted his rifle and killed Rojas anyway. 

It was completely innocent, the way he moved slightly so he was next to Ghost on the way to the RV site. Even then, in a way that was so natural that only MacTavish would notice the fact that it wasn’t, Ghost shifted and slipped away before he could even say anything, at the back of the group as MacTavish led it, ostensibly to make sure no one was following them.

Off the books meant no mission report— meant no excuse to get Ghost in his office, as he left him to manage the 141 as he decided their next move. The safehouse they were in was a temporary measure at best, only enough to keep them safe from the militia until he could organise a way out— he got the intel over to Laswell, who passed it to Shepherd, before immediately informing him the Brazilian government hadn’t taken kindly to their presence, either. His office was only a storeroom on one end of the abandoned warehouse, and had walls that let the draught from outside in; sitting back, MacTavish dragged a hand through his hair and over his beard. The mohawk was growing out, with no time to clean it up— he felt the bristle under his hands as he closed his eyes.

He needed Ghost there. He wouldn’t be able to help any of it— but he needed him there, just so that he could see him, just so that he could think. There was so much they needed to do, and there was a set order in which they had to do it, and it was MacTavish who had to figure out how to do it as fast as possible, with the least casualties, without killing all of his men and everyone who depended on him in the process. Meat had nearly died, and so had Royce— it was pure luck that they hadn’t, and luck wasn’t something they could rely on when it was like this. Shepherd would only be able to help so far— he needed a course of action, but every time he’d put his pen down in his journal, it was like he couldn’t think. 

If he needed Ghost the way he did, he would have abandoned all of it to go after him straight away. It was a good thing that he hadn’t, indicative of how well they had fallen into their roles despite themselves. If he loved Ghost, he would have dropped everything else to follow him outside immediately, wouldn’t have bothered with anything else— at least for where they were, he had made the right choice. 

The office only had a dim lamp, in an attempt to stave off the risk of anyone seeing light in the abandoned warehouse. Night had fallen, and the foliage around the building called with wild animals, songbirds and insects— MacTavish looked at his journal a final, futile time before snapping it shut and shoving it into an inner pocket. 

The warehouse was cold and quiet, nearly everyone settled to sleep. Despite the fact that it was supposed to be safe, more than a few people had fallen asleep with one hand safely on their rifles, and nearly everyone was still in their plate carriers— it was silent, but even like that, there was an undercurrent of restless energy, hypervigilance like a physical presence. The night sky was speckled with stars, and a cool wind blew the few tendrils of clouds across the horizon; a waning crescent hung low in the sky, insects chittering in the undergrowth as he stepped outside. 

He nearly didn’t see him. In the scarce light of the moon, even the silvery-blue smoke of the cigarette he was taking deep drags of was invisible. It was only the little movement of him rolling out his left shoulder that drew attention to him, silent and nearly imperceptible; MacTavish caught his eye for a moment before it became obscured behind the smoke again, like the stars behind the clouds.

By nature, Ghost wasn’t restless. Energy seemed to thrum through him, but it was Ghost who controlled it, wielded it like a weapon and not the other way around— but, there was something desperately unsettled in the way Ghost kept moving. He’d readjust his stance, his shoulders, the way he held his cigarette; his free hand would graze over his shoulder, over the strap of his rifle, like he simply couldn’t decide where to leave it. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ghost told him immediately, as he approached. Grass had begun to grow through the gravel around the warehouse, but it still crunched under MacTavish’s feet as he approached; by apparent instinct, the hand Ghost wasn’t holding the cigarette with tightened over the strap of his rifle where it was on his shoulder, like he was preparing to fire. He stopped short, further than where he normally stood— Ghost looked him over, tendrils of smoke caressing his lips as he exhaled, the little stagger in it almost impossible to catch.

“I can’t talk to my lieutenant after a mission?” 

“You’ve got the intel,” Ghost replied, looking away. “Nothing else matters.” 

He hated it when he did that— he hated it when he’d deliberately ignored how important he was, how much he knew he mattered. Like he already knew the response on MacTavish’s tongue, Ghost just huffed softly, looking away; MacTavish bit down on it, closed his mouth, changed tacks—

“We got that intel thanks to you.”

As if he was looking at him through the scope of a sniper, Ghost’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing like they had locked on a target.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do— what?” 

“Don’t come out here to— tell me I’ve done a good job, like I’m your fucking dog, sir,” Ghost spat, aggressive enough that it seemed to catch them both off guard. MacTavish blinked, frowning slightly, and Ghost’s eyes widened a fraction, before he took an agitated little huff of smoke, looking away.

MacTavish hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t asked for anything, hadn’t pushed for it, hadn’t even implied that he wanted anything more from Ghost than what he gave him— by all means, his hands were clean of the entire affair. Ghost had known exactly what he was doing when he’d stepped forward to interrogate him; if MacTavish had intervened, he would have been undermining Ghost, would have implied that Ghost wasn’t able to handle himself, would have suggested that he knew Ghost so closely that he knew what he was able to handle—

He’d done exactly what was expected of him— no more, no less. If any outside observer had been looking at them, watching them, assessing the interaction, they’d have found nothing to object about it. 

If he loved Ghost, he wouldn’t leave. Ghost knew it too, that had to be why he wanted him to go. It had to be the correct thing to do for both of them, to leave him there and go. 

When he turned, however, Ghost’s entire expression shifted.

“Where’re you going?” 

MacTavish paused, turning. Ghost stood up a little straighter like he didn’t know what else to do with himself, the cigarette smouldering between his fingers.

“Didn’t you want me to leave?”

Like he was confused, Ghost shook his head slightly, eyes narrowing— smoke curled between his lips, and his free hand curled restlessly into a fist. He took a deep breath, and several things flickered rapidly over his expression: confusion, anger, hurt, a flicker of something that almost resembled panic, and above it all, the little stagger in his exhale, like someone had slotted their hands between his ribs and had closed a hand around his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter and—

“Since when do you— go?”

MacTavish paused, and then stopped. 

In the night, Ghost’s pupils were wide and dark like the sky. A breeze blew towards them, rattling in the walls of the warehouse; there was barely any light as it was, but Ghost’s eyelashes cast shadows in the night, blocking any light from entering his eyes, the ring of blue like the sky in a storm. The corrugated metal walls didn’t provide them any privacy, and the night was full of threats both of them were too aware of.

Since when did he go, was what Ghost had asked— since when did he leave, because MacTavish had always ignored Ghost’s attempts to push him away when they were like this, had always pulled in closer to reach him; except for the fact that a commanding officer had no reason to push back when he was being pushed away. If they were what they were acting like, as professional and untouchable as they were— he had no reason to know that the only time Ghost really relaxed, not in the way he did when he wanted to act like he was calmer than he was but when he really felt safe enough, was when MacTavish held him close enough that they both knew that nothing could ever reach Ghost. 

The silence stretched too long— but MacTavish didn’t leave, even as Ghost bristled, frowned, took an angry little drag of his cigarette—

“Nevermind,” he spat, when MacTavish couldn’t find an answer. “Forget I said anything—”

“Ghost.”

“It’s not— what’re you doing out here?” Ghost cut across himself, his already tenuous patience threatening to give way. “Weren’t you going inside?”

He noticed it all. He had to notice it all— it was self-flaggelation, because he noticed and did nothing about it even when he knew exactly what Ghost wanted, what he needed. 

He did nothing. His inaction was moral, ethical, the right thing to do— and blood was soaking into his hands, itching and drying the longer he stood there. The quiet scoff Ghost let out curled as smoke in the air, disappearing in the slight breeze; crickets chirped in the undergrowth, the stars disappearing behind the clouds, as Ghost rolled out his shoulder again.

“You could have asked me to stop you,” MacTavish pointed out, instead of anything else. 

There was a delay before it seemed to register, as if Ghost’s mind was elsewhere, gazing at something indistinct in the middle distance. When it did, however, Ghost blinked, eyebrows furrowing as he looked back to him.  

“Why would I do that?” 

“You don’t like interrogations,” MacTavish replied; Ghost’s eyes narrowed, the end of his cigarette lighting up amber as he breathed in—

“I’m good at them,” he replied, like MacTavish was being deliberately obtuse— “I’m the best on the task force, so why would I have—”

“I’m not talking about being good at them.” 

“No one likes interrogations, we only get them done because— what d’you want, sir?” Ghost asked again, smoke spilling from his lips—  “if you’re here to talk about work, then just—”

“I’m not out here to talk about work—” MacTavish couldn’t help but argue, even if it was a lie, even if that was the extent of what he could allow himself—

“We don’t have anything else to talk about,” Ghost shot back, tone venomous. “You got the intel, so the only thing that matters is how we get out of here.”

“Don’t— stop saying that,” MacTavish cut across him, “for fuck’s sake, Ghost— you know that that’s not all that matters to me, you know that it’s not—”

“It’s the only thing that should matter to you!” 

For a split second, he swore Ghost was about to hit him; worse than that, however, was the fact MacTavish wasn’t even sure he would stop him, desperate for any excuse to touch him that could be explained away.

It was disproportionate. They both knew there was no harm in MacTavish checking up on him after the interrogation, nothing odd about the optics of it in front of their team— but Ghost was glaring at him furiously, eyes dark in the night and narrowed like a predator on prey. He could practically feel the energy simmering under his skin, utterly uncharacteristic for Ghost, who never got rattled like that in the field, but MacTavish didn’t have the right to push, had forfeited the right to know— 

Unless— unless, it occurred to him, that his and Ghost’s problems were one and the same.

“Is that what you think? That it doesn’t matter to me because— what, because I asked you to wait?” 

In the night, Ghost’s eyes flashed dangerously at the topic. By reflex, MacTavish glanced over at the doorway, but there was no sound to suggest that their conversation had carried enough to wake anyone up; it was the little stagger in the way Ghost exhaled harshly that gave him away all over again, his other hand readjusting his collar, brushing over his knife, tightening around the rifle strap until MacTavish was sure his knuckles had gone white under his gloves. 

“It shouldn’t matter to you— you shouldn’t care,” Ghost said again, insistent, final— “we only— we’re doing this so you wouldn’t have to care.” 

“We’re doing this because of Shepherd,” MacTavish corrected, eyebrows furrowing when Ghost looked away— MacTavish tilted his head to try and meet his eye, but Ghost’s eyes were firmly on the distance, even as something in them seemed to shake, tremble, splinter as if it was about to give way— 

“And if it doesn’t work?” 

“What d’you mean if it doesn’t work?” 

“If—” Ghost met his eye, and just for a split second, he swore he had the exact same look Rojas had worn when he had realised what was happening, that there was no way out— the trapped, desperate, terrified look before Ghost seemed to snatch it back as he looked away— “if Shepherd doesn’t let it work.”

“Shepherd’s my problem.”

The long breath Ghost let out made him seem simultaneously younger, and older, than he was. The scent of smoke filled the air, hot and heavy, and for the first time, his eyes having adjusted to the dark, MacTavish could see the fine tremble in Ghost’s hand. Crickets chirped in the bushes, and in the far distance, they could hear birds call; the wind breathed through the trees, bending and creaking in response. 

“No,” he replied finally, soft if not for the ragged edge in his voice. “He’s not.”

They needed to leave. MacTavish needed to organise a way out. He was wasting time. It wasn’t even something they should have been talking about with only a wall of corrugated metal between them and their team; and Ghost was right, it shouldn’t have mattered to him as much as it did, he shouldn’t have noticed everything the way he had—

It was almost ridiculous. He’d spent so long getting close to Ghost that he had forgotten what it was like to be apart; even like that, he stood uselessly, unsure of how and where to reach for Ghost when he had tied them both up in his professional responsibilities.

For several moments, it was quiet— quiet in a way it had never been with Ghost, quiet in a way that made his stomach turn. He could have sworn Ghost didn’t want him there, glaring at nothing in the distance like he was furious he hadn’t left; except, every time he so much as shifted, he could practically feel Ghost’s attention snap to him, tracking everything he did, like he couldn’t believe what was about to happen. Instead, then, MacTavish stayed exactly where he was, but then it was like Ghost seemed to slip away from him for a few moments at a time; his eyes would shutter, and his breathing would hitch as if there was something lodged in his throat, like he was somewhere else entirely, and before MacTavish could even figure out how to acknowledge it, it would disappear again. 

If he could just close the distance, MacTavish couldn’t help but think— if he could throw everything else away, if he just get his hands on him, if he could feel the skin, if he could breathe in the scent of it, if he could cup his face in his hands, feel the stubbled jaw in his hands and trace the Glasgow smile under his fingertips, if he could give Ghost what he knew they were both agonising after— 

He was dragged from his thoughts by the minute movement of Ghost rolling out his shoulder again. It was nothing more than a shift in fabric, barely visible in the night— but MacTavish noticed it, because he was unable to do anything else, attention snapping to him.

“What did you do?” 

Ghost didn’t reply for a second, elsewhere; MacTavish looked over at him, and then turned fully to him. At that, Ghost blinked, eyebrows furrowing slightly—

“What?” 

“Your arm— what did you do to it?” 

“Nothing,” Ghost frowned deeper, before he seemed to realise what he was talking about— he shook his shoulder out, as if to check it hurt, and then brought up a hand to it almost defensively— “nothing. It just— I think it got dislocated on the takedown.”

“You— dislocated your arm, and you didn’t say anything?” MacTavish asked, incredulous— “Riley, what were you—”

“It’s fine,” Ghost pulled back, glaring at him like he was the one being unreasonable, “it’s not— I put it back—”

“You need medevac,” MacTavish told him, in disbelief— “fuckin’ Christ, Ghost, what were you thinking? You should’ve told me—”

“I dealt with it,” Ghost snapped, unreasonably defensive for what it was; he chewed angrily on the inside of his cheek, looking away with a huff of smoke, before— “the more it gets dislocated, the easier it is to put it back.” 

“How many times have you bloody dislocated it that you can just—” MacTavish began, before at the same moment, both he and Ghost seemed to remember the impossible angle Rojas’s arms had been pulled back at. MacTavish could see it in Ghost’s eyes, the moment he saw that MacTavish knew it too— his eyes narrowed, mouth moving like he was ready to argue, except that nothing came out. 

Despite himself, MacTavish softened. Paradoxically, the more he did, the more upset Ghost seemed to get; he glared up at MacTavish as if he had said something, and then looked away, the air between them filling with smoke as he inhaled and exhaled with that same deliberate, measured energy—

“It was a good choice,” Ghost spat, as if MacTavish had said anything. “The dislocation. It works well in interrogations. Makes it so they can’t struggle, and it doesn’t hurt them enough that they can’t tell you what you want to hear.” 

Ostensibly, it was something that had come out of any advanced interrogation handbook— except for the fact that Ghost wouldn’t quite meet his eye, fixing his collar again.  

“A good choice,” MacTavish echoed, as Ghost, instead of getting angrier at the challenge, shook his head like he didn’t quite believe whatever he was thinking— 

“It got us the intel we needed. It— they were all good choices.”

“That’s why you did it?” MacTavish asked; his tone wasn’t critical, but Ghost’s eyes snapped to him like it was, switching dizzyingly fast between disbelief, detachment, anger—

“What’re you— you were the one who said I did good,” Ghost argued back, more and more frayed at the edges as his breathing seemed to fall out of that regular pattern, as the tremble in his hand became more obvious— “you told me I did good, and we got the intel we needed—”

Ghost cut himself off abruptly to readjust his mask, dragging a hand over his head, crossing his arms, uncrossing them to smoke. A little desperate, MacTavish opened his hand to reach out, and paused with it halfway between them; the movement didn’t go unnoticed, and Ghost scoffed at the sight of it, more and more upset—

“You know that I had to do what I did— you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Ghost insisted, even though MacTavish hadn’t said anything— “you’re being— you’re making this into an— an issue, when it’s not even—”

“Ghost—”

“Don’t,” Ghost cut across him viciously; the next moment, the anger shifted again into incredulity, as Ghost took a little step back, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers— “why’re you just— what’re you even doing here? If you’ve got something to say, just say it!”

“What d’you want me to say, Ghost?” MacTavish asked, and he wished, viscerally, that he sounded as sincere as he was, that Ghost would give him an answer he knew neither of them had— Ghost scoffed, chewing the inside of his cheek, his lips, the end of his cigarette as it burned to the filter, more and more upset—

“Nothing! We’ve not got anything to talk to each other about, we— why’re you just standing there? Why don’t you— fucking do something!” 

He did nothing. He always did nothing, because it served him, but MacTavish was the one who had this happen, hadn’t said anything when he knew Ghost was hurting himself in the process— had let him do it in the interest of results. 

He did nothing, and was supposed to feel better for it, even where he could see Ghost fraying at the edges; he did nothing, even when he knew how deprived Ghost was of what they’d both come to rely on, because he’d promised them both that holding out would give them both something better, something real— as if promises meant anything in the face of war.

When he reached for him though, his hand closing gently around Ghost’s wrist, as if he was only checking his pulse, Ghost wrenched it back like the contact burned. 

“What are you—”

“Listen to me— Ghost—”

“Let go of me,” Ghost spat, taking a fist of his vest to shove him back and holding him there, just above his heart— “you’re bloody impossible, just— just— what do you fucking want, sir?” 

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” MacTavish argued back, hand tightening around Ghost’s wrist. 

For a moment, it was perfectly silent. The insects kept sounding in the underground, and a breeze blew in over the forest, whispering in the trees, echoing in the corrugated iron. Between Ghost’s lips, he watched the way the smoke dissipated with each successive breath, feeling his pulse thrum desperately under his skin. 

There was a split second where he was sure Ghost had hit him. The breath was knocked out of his chest, the cigarette dropped to the floor, MacTavish staggered back— it took a moment to register, then, that it was Ghost’s arms locked safely around his neck, Ghost’s chest pressed against his, Ghost’s head buried in the crook of his neck—

“Riley,” MacTavish swallowed, hands falling uselessly to his sides as Ghost only leaned more of his weight against him— “don’t.”

“No.”

“Anyone could come out— you know better,” MacTavish insisted, even as he did nothing to stop the way Ghost squeezed tighter, like he needed to crawl inside of MacTavish’s chest. 

“Just— a second,” Ghost insisted, pressing himself so much closer that MacTavish was sure Ghost was limiting his own ability to breathe; he could feel the way Ghost’s fingers dug in to the back of his tac vest, so unused to seeking out contact he held him like they were sparring on the mats. 

He hadn’t held him in such a long time. MacTavish missed it so violently it made him feel lightheaded, and it was like his muscles, his bones, cramped and ached with the desperation to return to where they belonged— 

For just a moment, MacTavish sighed, and breathed into him. His hands relaxed, landing on the soft curve of Ghost’s hips like he was coming home. Through the mask, he could smell the soft scent of his shampoo, and he breathed it in like a suffocating man would oxygen, feeling the way Ghost’s fingers dug in.

The door was right there. That was what he should have been focusing on— the door, and their transport out of there, and the fact his back was turned to the forest, and everything other than the way he could feel Ghost’s heart beating against his, the unsteady thump of it palpable even through the layers of clothes and tactical gear and their vests, a song for only him to know—

If he loved Ghost, he wouldn’t deny him, not after the fact that he was responsible for how upset Ghost was. He knew what the right thing to do was, he knew what he had to do, and yet it wasn’t any easier—

“Ghost,” MacTavish tried again, gently running his hands between the tiny space between Ghost’s harness and his tactical vest, the only part of his waist he could reach; at the movement, he could feel Ghost’s muscles seize tight, but stubbornly, bull-headedly, he refused to let go.

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t— what?”

“Don’t say that,” he insisted, voice threatening to give way— “just—”

“Come on,” MacTavish cut across him, voice softening despite himself. “You know this isn’t helping you.”

He repeated the movement, listening to Ghost’s breathing catch, before carefully lifting his hands to his upper arms. Ghost didn’t outright fight him, but there was a desperate little shift in his expression as he gently pulled him back, eyes reflecting the barest of the light from the night sky.

“John,” Ghost said, very softly; involuntarily, MacTavish’s hands tightened on his arms, and Ghost swallowed, changing his approach like it would get MacTavish to give it up— “captain—”

“You know we shouldn’t,” MacTavish’s voice bordered on pleading as he brushed his thumbs in arcs up and down Ghost’s biceps, “come on, you know it won’t help if we do it like this— talk to me, let me—”

“We can’t talk— we’re only supposed to talk about work—”

“For fuck’s sake, Riley—”

“It won’t work,” Ghost insisted, breathing coming faster and faster as if his own lungs couldn’t handle the weight of what he was saying— “with Shepherd, it won’t work, he’ll never let the transfer go through, it won’t work, and it’ll be like this, it’ll always be like this—”

“Ghost— Ghost, this is temporary—”

“This is nothing.”

Ghost’s entire chest heaved with the force of it, like it was crushing him on the way out. The words silenced whatever argument MacTavish had.

The breeze whispered across the trees, cold and silent as it caressed them both. Ghost’s eyelashes fluttered with it, pale silver in the night; he didn’t meet MacTavish’s eye, gaze lowered and away. Like it would make a difference, MacTavish repeated the movement up and down, but Ghost didn’t react— just for a second, he was gone again, even like that, in MacTavish’s hands.

“Hey,” MacTavish breathed, voice softening despite himself; Ghost exhaled, exhausted, so visibly stretched in every direction it made MacTavish’s own chest clench. “Come on. It’s okay— sh, it’s alright, we’re alright.”

Alright for now— alright, until their temporary safehouse wasn’t safe anymore, until what they were running from caught up with them, until Ghost realised he couldn’t do anything, wouldn’t do anything, because that was all he did—

“That’s it,” MacTavish breathed, when Ghost’s eyes finally met his— “that’s it, just look at me. Talk to me. Ghost— Riley,” MacTavish cut across him, when Ghost opened his mouth to argue, “talk to me— tell me what he said. Tell me about the interrogation, from the start.”

“You know what Rojas said,” Ghost replied, shaking his head slightly— “you already—”

“Don’t make me make it an order, lieutenant.”

Ghost still hadn’t pulled his mask down. It left him to watch the tiny shift in his lips when he moved to argue, stubborn to the end. MacTavish was still holding him by the upper arms, close enough to feel the heat under his hands and just impersonal enough to be able to be explained away if someone saw it.

In the far distance, a songbird called, long and low, like it was mourning. It carried over the breeze that whispered through the trees, so that for a moment, the insects chirping in the undergrowth hesitated— when Ghost shifted slightly on his feet, MacTavish hazarded a step forward, so that Ghost’s weight leaned against the wall and it was MacTavish who was between him and the rest of the world.

“From the start?” Ghost echoed, more to himself than MacTavish. “He didn’t even say anything at the start. He didn’t— I mean, he just laughed.”

“And then?” MacTavish prompted, softer than he meant. 

Ghost shook his head slightly, eyes dropping to the floor; it made him look younger, like a child caught in a lie. 

In, for four seconds. Hold for four seconds. Ghost swallowed, before, in an unnerving display of trust, Ghost’s eyes slipped closed on the broken exhale, like he was trusting him with the breath in his lungs. 

“He…” Ghost began, “he— didn’t say anything til I kicked him in the— in the ribs he broke in the takedown. And then he said the thing about— about how Marakov had enemies we didn’t even know about, or— whatever the fuck he was on about.”

“Keep going.” 

“You pushed him. He held out til I dislocated his fingers, and then— he told us about the gulag.”

MacTavish’s pulse kicked when Ghost’s eyes fluttered open, like his heart was beating just out of sync with his. His eyes slid around the scene, slightly out of focus as he looked past MacTavish, like he was expecting to see something else; under MacTavish’s hands, heat radiated even through the thick layer of his hoodie as he squeezed gently. Ghost shook his head at that, chewing on the inside of his cheek, on his lower lip—

“I don’t— I don’t remember.”

Ghost’s voice shook at the edges as he spoke. He didn’t meet his eye as he inhaled, sharper than he meant; MacTavish’s breathing caught with it as he tilted his head, tilting his head to catch his eye.

“I dislocated his shoulders,” Ghost said again, “I put the— the cables, and I— I don’t even remember what he said— he was shaking from the electricity, and I don’t know why, I don’t—”

“Easy— easy, Riley—”

“I punched him in the jaw,” Ghost frowned, still not looking at him; half exasperated, half in disbelief, Ghost dragged a hand over the mask, adjusted his ear defenders in his collar, and let his fingers graze over the knife in his vest anxiously— “why did I—? That wouldn’t’ve— he wouldn’t’ve been able to talk, so why would I have—”

“Tell me what he said, Ghost,” MacTavish said, voice falling softer, lower, as Ghost swallowed again like there was something lodged in his throat.

“I can’t remember,” his eyes finally met MacTavish’s, and there was a hunted, animalistic look in his eyes, sick and desperate for something MacTavish couldn’t even begin to name, “I dislocated his shoulders, and he said— something, so he put the jumper cables on, and I don’t remember what I said— I don’t know why he did it—”

The sound of the soundbird paused, replaced momentarily with the noise of wings furiously beating air, before those disappeared, too. Ghost barely managed to clamp down on the rest of the sentence before it spilled out— too little, and too late.

“Riley,” MacTavish breathed, unable to help it, as if Ghost’s breathing would fall into pattern with his own in the same way MacTavish’s lungs only followed Ghost’s— unwilling or unable to meet his eye, Ghost exhaled sharply, looking away, and pulled at his sleeves again.

For several seconds, it was silent; not as it had been before, but more vulnerable, like glass on the verge of shattering. Gently, carefully, MacTavish lifted one hand from his arm, and Ghost’s eyelashes fluttered as if he wasn’t sure if he’d caress his cheek or drive his fist into his jaw— as if he might have let it happen regardless, for the excuse of the contact. MacTavish took that for what it was, letting his hand pause in the air and drop to his side. 

“I…” Ghost began, shaking his head slightly. “I thought I could do it.” 

“I know.” 

“No,” he insisted, looking up at him near imploringly— “it wasn’t because of you, I— I thought it would be different, I thought it wouldn’t— I don’t know why it got to me, it’s been so long—”

“I know,” MacTavish said again, softer. Ghost’s collar was askew from the amount of times he’d readjusted it, and his mask had shifted slightly, just enough that one lock of blond hair threatened to peek out; it was plausibly deniable, and he couldn’t help himself the moment of indulgence as he reached up, pretending not to notice the near subconscious way Ghost listed towards him.

“He was telling us,” MacTavish began, voice as soft as he could allow it, as if he was comforting him and not talking about an interrogation that had killed a man, “about that prisoner, the one Makarov has in the gulag.”

As he spoke, he gently tucked the lock of hair away, and straightened the mask slightly; it had been such an agonisingly long time since he’d seen Ghost’s hair, but it had to be growing out, at that unruly stage where it would neither lie flat under the mask nor be long enough to push it back— he brushed his thumb along Ghost’s forehead, under the seam of the mask, and pretended he didn’t need the heat of his skin as badly as Ghost needed the touch. 

“You remember?" He continued, when Ghost didn’t say anything, carefully readjusting his collar; Ghost nodded as he straightened it, and flattened his ear defenders. “Prisoner 627?” 

Ghost didn’t immediately respond, but when MacTavish glanced up at him, Ghost’s eyes were already on his, pinning him still; his lips were still slightly parted where he had rolled up the mask, and MacTavish felt the soft hum of the affirmative against his fingertips where they were still resting against his throat.

“The one that Makarov put in the gulag?”

“That‘s right,” MacTavish nodded encouragingly, “that’s— good.”

He straightened the knife in his vest that Ghost kept messing with, and carefully readjusted the straps of his vest; unbidden, the image of Rojas when they had broken his ribs flashed across his mind again, the crunch they had made and the way he had gasped wetly for air— inexplicably, he was gripped with the urge to reach into Ghost’s chest and dig his fingers into the muscles between his ribs, hold onto them and not let go so he didn’t have to wonder how much of Ghost’s skill came from experience. Ghost’s eyelashes fluttered in the next gust of air as he swallowed, and MacTavish followed the pale column of his throat down to where it was hidden into his hoodie, pale like moonlight.

“Petropavlovsk.”

“What?” MacTavish blinked, momentarily distracted— Ghost’s voice came out unusually soft, tender around the edges, like he was saying something more intimate than what they were really discussing. 

“Rojas said the gulag he was in was near there,” he murmured, looking up at MacTavish; when MacTavish’s hands momentarily hesitated around his shoulders, too afraid of applying pressure in case he made the pain worse, Ghost rested his own hands around MacTavish’s wrists, squeezing slightly like he was scared he’d slip away.

“You should have told me when you got hurt, Ghost.”

It should have come out like the reprimand it was; the callsign tacked on the end should have reiterated the line in the sand, the one that neither of them were supposed to cross—

So he had no reason to lean in the way he did— no reason to push closer and lower his voice, until Ghost’s back was to the wall and he had to tip his head back to look at him. The half-lidded way Ghost blinked up at him could destroy empires, and when Ghost’s breathing staggered as if there was something in his throat, MacTavish swallowed as if to clear it—

“I thought it would be okay,” Ghost replied, voice barely a whisper; he tilted his head as if to bring their lips closer together, but his hands tightened on MacTavish’s wrists, holding them still. “I thought I could— I thought I could do it.” 

“You did,” MacTavish insisted, tone authoritative if not for where he couldn’t seem to help softening it until it was like he was soothing something wounded— “you got the intel, we know where he is, we can get out of here, because of you—“

“I did— I did okay?” 

Ghost knew better. Okay wasn’t a word that came remotely close to torturing a man in the back alleys of a favela. Okay was a privilege they’d left behind a long time ago, getting their hands dirty to keep the world clean. It was a ridiculous thing to ask, an insane thing to expect an honest answer to—

Which meant that he wasn’t asking if it was really okay. 

Ghost was good at everything, but he was particularly good at interrogations; they both knew it, the way he fell effortlessly into the role of a monster, the way he knew just what buttons to press to terrify anyone, easier and more effective than anyone trained in it. And the disconcerting part was that, better than anyone else, MacTavish knew just how effective he was— just how badly the scars would hurt if they ever got the chance to heal, just how terrified the target would wake up from nightmares— just how much it would take to even survive what had happened.

MacTavish blinked at him. Ghost, in a moment of reluctance so unguarded that it could only be awarded to MacTavish through trust, chewed on his lower lip as he waited for his answer, as if he was genuinely afraid of what MacTavish might say.

“Did you think that I— that I wouldn’t be okay with what you did? What you— had to do?” 

“You kept looking at me after,” Ghost replied, very softly. “Like I was— you know.”

The songbird had started singing again, closer than before. It was a long, quiet song, that rang out in the dark; the image of it made MacTavish think of wings, of planes and helicopters, of soaring into the air and letting the sky take them far, far away. Ghost didn’t elaborate further, and he didn’t need to; as gently as he could, MacTavish finally allowed his hands to rest on Ghost’s shoulders, just innocuous enough to be passable. 

“There is nothing you could do to make me think that—” MacTavish began emphatically, voice shaking with sincerity— before he caught himself. He swallowed, shook his head slightly, changed his angle—  

“You did— Ghost, you did what you had to do. You did what I would have done.”

“Yeah?” 

“You got the intel,” MacTavish told him, squeezing gently, echoing his own words back to him— “you got the intel, you made the right call. That’s all it was, that’s all that matters—”

“If it was the right call, then why am I—” Ghost scoffed, half incredulous and half so desperate for an answer that he couldn’t even hide it, “if it was the right call, then why am I like— this?”

If MacTavish had any more humour for the situation— if they were anywhere else, in any other situation, he might have laughed at the irony.

Ghost, of all people, demanding to know how he could have done something that they both knew was necessary, that they both knew was right for the survival, and still feel sick to his stomach about it— 

If he loved Ghost, MacTavish seemed to realise— if he cared about him, if he cared about what the right thing to do was, then he would be exactly where he was.

“You feel like this,” MacTavish began, finally letting his hands drop to his sides, out of Ghost’s grip, “because you’re better than the people who did this to you. You feel like this because— because it matters.”

“But it shouldn’t— it shouldn’t matter—”

“You don’t get a choice if it matters or not,” MacTavish replied, unable to help the soft huff of resigned, exhausted amusement at the absurdity of it all; he couldn’t help it, not when Ghost’s expression hardened the next moment, unable to understand what MacTavish had only learned through time. 

The crickets were still chirping. The songbird was still singing, which meant that there was no movement in the forest to scare it away; for the time being, it was safe. The breeze washed over them both, but he could still feel the heat radiating off Ghost. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the sound of his team sleeping, restless and sporadic as they did, from behind the corrugated metal.

“Have Roach relieve you,” MacTavish ordered, very softly. “Come back inside.” 

Carefully, like something would shatter if he wasn’t careful, he lifted a hand to Ghost’s face, hooking a finger under the mask to gently pull it back down; the last thing MacTavish managed to see of Ghost’s lips was the sight of them, slightly parted, before they disappeared into the fabric. For a moment, Ghost’s hands moved like he intended to hold him again, before he seemed to restrain himself— instead, they curled into fists and deliberately relaxed by his side, the leather of the gloves creaking slightly.

“I need you there,” MacTavish added, in case it wasn’t abundantly clear. Ghost exhaled softly, exhausted, but looked up at him with the barest edges of some of his usual humour—

“To sort transport?”

“You can smoke inside,” MacTavish offered, to which Ghost shook his head, like MacTavish was being ridiculous. Starved of the normalcy, MacTavish couldn’t help but follow the movement, unable to do anything but notice every part of Ghost; idly, like he didn’t realise he was doing it, Ghost reached up to readjust the mask where MacTavish had pulled it down, scrubbing at the spot where MacTavish had touched like he could force the contact deeper into his skin.

“You can go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

MacTavish opened his mouth to object— and closed it when he had no valid reason to, except for the fact that he wanted Ghost in his sights all the time, wanted him next to him all the time, wanted him in reach, close enough to touch, close enough to breathe him in and pull him into his lungs and keep him there forever. He didn’t say any of that, however, swallowing it all down to turn around and walk away; when he paused by the door, however, and glanced back at Ghost, he was readjusting the strap of his rifle over his chest, massaging into the spot over his heart. 

He couldn’t help but notice it all, cataloguing every minute movement and every shift of breath, like it was his own. Privately, MacTavish thought that he couldn’t exactly be blamed for it, either; not when, as Ghost walked into his makeshift office a couple of minutes after, MacTavish could physically feel it like blood flow returning to a limb cut off from it, like the first breath of air after choking, relief beyond what words could describe.