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John crouches down behind a wall for some cover although it's unnecessary with how dark the peaceful night has become. He needs to think. Strategize after pulling some options to do this, to make up his mind.
There are six of them, lying prone and screaming at the top of their lungs in the most pitiful way. So small despite containing such huge determination that has them fighting for their lives still. John wonders if anyone heard them before he got here and got their hearts crushed bit by bit by it the same way John is feeling, lesser or worse. But this area is for those who put duties higher than anything else. Civilians are very scarce as well, so often he and his friends have to travel for half an hour to buy pizza after losing a bet for the world cup.
Either way, one of them has an injured leg, John mentally notes with scrunched nose. Broken, or dislocated, he isn’t sure. Must've fallen from a really high ground. "How did you lots end up here…?" John mutters, scratching his temple, swirling his slung weapon to his back for more room for himself to crouch lower.
It could be a trap, a part of him reminds as he examines closer. Cautiously, he touches one — the one with a broken leg — and it begins crying again though the sound is weaker as if acknowledging the gentle nudge of John's knuckles only. John swears, as he stares and listens some more to their cry for help, he swears he doesn't choke on a lump that closes up his throat from the inside. He's not a fucking softie, he's just disturbed.
He looks up and around, weighing his wiser option of waiting some more in case their handler is close by. Hunting. Preying on anything, possibly even including him. Waiting for a man like John to go away from these sad, small things that shouldn't be used as baits for people. It's a quiet and breezy night, and his shift is ending soon. He might want to hurry if he wants to stave off suspicion of why he didn't report anything in quite a while.
It could be a bloody trap, Johnny. The voice inside his head warns him again, sternly this time. And - oh, how eerie - it sounds a lot like one particular someone who John would rather not think about as he tries to lift one of the bunch up in one palm from near his feet. Pausing, John frowns at the size of this fragile package of shivering skin and bones. Two of them aren’t fully occupying his palm as he lifts another one up. That should be enough to bat away Lt.'s warning as he huffs a nervous laugh when the healthiest one actually fits on his spacious, empty front pocket near his holster.
Don’t get compromised… John’s scoff is coloured with hilarity, eyes fixated on the furball inside his pocket, imagining how it might spook his lieutenant. These are baby kittens, Lt., they’re not going to get me or anyone killed, he retorts.
Yet his palms sweat and he feels colder even with tonight’s weather when Ghost’s paranoid suggestion resurfaces again, about shooting a damn terrified dog in Mexico City. He rummages his tactical gears for a long moment, because there are six of them. He can’t take the vest off, the absence of it covering his torso might raise questions back in base, so he moves things around. Pulls out and replaces here and there. Tucks more and more of the tiny kittens—very gently, very carefully, especially the injured one—inside spacious pockets of his uniform left and right.
John sighs when he notices that they’re nearly as thin as cartridges that he carries. The broken-leg yells after curling into a ball inside the pocket near his heart, almost making John wince. “Ow, did I hurt you…?” John hisses like he's the one who gets hurt. “I’m really sorry, lad.” Apologetically, he pats its head with his gloved index finger to soothe the crying down, shushing as he scans his surroundings. Poor thing. Being terrified and hurt is the worst combination, and there’s nothing that the wee babe can do about it.
Well. John, on the other hand, can and will do something about it. About their situation. Just - not at the moment and not here either, at least.
But what if their handler—the mother shows up and finds that her babies are gone? John can not give a fuck about what others are going to say if he brings them with him. It’s not that there’s a written rule about bringing animals into the base, so technically there are no rules he's breaking by doing this. Some might even approve, and they'll be his responsibility alone even though he knows jack shit about cats. The base has a good internet connection, he can search up on how to take care of a baby cat's broken bone, and how to nurture the six of them. Maybe even book a vet appointment to get it checked tomorrow, or some other day.
John contemplates as he looks down to the occupied pockets of his uniform that has shaped up in a funny way now, perhaps to some observant outsiders. His stuff being tucked in and jutting out in odd, wrong places, just to make more comfortable space for the quivering kittens. He purses his lips, scans the bushes and the meadow again without the help of his flashlight to find the whereabouts of the mother cat. No matter what, he will bring them all with him. Back to the base where they can all be warm, dry, and having a good routine of food.
Can’t do it alone for tonight, it seems. John raises up to stand and turns on his comm-link. He decides to call someone that won't compromise this to anyone else, particularly to Simon 'Ghost' Riley.
"It's only temporary, and very doable, really," John tries to convince as amiable as he can.
Peering at the purring creatures inside, he knows Gaz and MacMillan are visibly holding themselves back from cooing at the kittens. John holds back as well - a smirk and a teasing about how insignificant their attempt is hiding when their eyes say a lot about what they're feeling. They've fallen helplessly for them, just like himself. But he does smile when one of the kittens shows its pale snout, emerging to the world again and looks at his backups, noticing how they melt seeing it.
"Really, MacTavish? This is what classified?”
John plants his hands on his hips, shrugging his shoulders when he’s sure no one has an idea to approach the three of them from the tower. “I don’t need your escort back to the base,” he says.
"But I'm not the right person you're asking permission for, if you're really certain with this.” Gaz adjusts his own vest, seemingly affected by how bulky John has appeared. “You know that, right?"
Of course he knows either of those. What does this clown take a man like him for? "I can handle the permit and everything else. I just need you guys to keep a lookout for their mum while I’m gone." John rolls his eyes, but he doesn't miss the light up on MacMillan's face hearing a supportive meow from his thigh. Gaz even cracks a fleeting, amused grin. He adds, "I need to buy some formulated milk, and they seriously need warm shelter for the night." He checks his digital watch for time and temperature, sighing. "And - my shift just ended. Are you guys helping or not?”
"Price can't know about this…" Gaz exchanges a look with MacMillan, unsure about that but nodding either way.
"Price is the least I'm worried about, finding these babies,” he reminds them. He wants to continue, mentioning Laswell as the furthest other-person from his mind for that matter as well, but Gaz shakes his head at him. You don’t understand, John catches on that, but not in a condescending way.
“Price is fond of fuzzy shits like that,” Gaz explains with a huff, like he doesn’t want to admit the obvious why, “he’ll coddle the shit out of these babies if he finds out, and then, your secret will go down in flames sooner than later-”
“-falling right in Ghost’s lap in no time…” MacMillan agrees. He nods solemnly, before shutting the hell up when he notices John’s eyebrows flying to his hairline hearing that. “Oh,” MacMillan breathes out after a pause, realizing, “oh. Uh-oh…”
John can’t believe this is happening. A shit-eating grin blooms on MacMillan’s face just at the right time Gaz snorts out loud, stating, “oh, you’re going to give yourself Hell for this, Soap…” Gaz starts wheezing in amusement without mercy when John shoves at both of his and MacMillan’s shoulders, hard enough that MacMillan begins to cackle giddily acknowledging John’s worry.
“Shut up, shut up. Shut the fuck up.”
Gaz, still chuckling, gives a path for John to march back to base. “Still not too late to change your mind, man!” Gaz advises, half-joking and half-not.
John eventually storms off, feeling more nervous than before because - Jesus fucking Christ, he now has to avoid not only Ghost but Price as well…? Alright. Price is nothing compared to Ghost even though they’re basically both his superiors, when it’s about proximity with John. Ghost has actually proven, and apparently will keep trying to prove his words with action about liking John alive.
Stepping into the basecamp now feels like stepping into landmine field.
Being found by Ghost just right the moment John walks in with his newly smuggled kittens should tell about John ‘Soap’ MacTavish’s luck a lot.
“Right about time, Johnny,” Ghost greets gruffly. He’s not on duty for some reason, being all cozy in his black hoodie and a pair of joggers that no one would believe contains nothing but clumps of cotton thread. John rebuffs the alarming notice of the buzzing kittens inside his vest with a languid nod. And if he tenses a bit under the scrutiny of Ghost’s gaze at him, because of-fucking-course he’s a bit too late on a verbal greeting back to Ghost, he also denies it.
“Fuckin’ freezin’ out there, thank fuck my shift is done,” John grumbles in one exhale of breath. Has an idea to lift one hand up and roll his shoulder, but a faint mewl strains his movement. He unknots a tension on the back of his neck instead, walking faster yet no less tired-and-grumpy-looking.
“It’s November. The Hell do you expect.” John hears Ghost rise up to his feet from where he’s sitting when he makes a way to the tech room, to return his gears including his comm-link. He swallows a lump on his throat because this is exactly what Ghost meant about liking John MacTavish alive; what Gaz meant about you’re going to give yourself Hell for this, Soap. This lieutenant will find an excuse - any excuse to follow Sergeant John MacTavish around like a lost, domesticated grizzly bear. “You’re not watching the match tonight, Johnny?”
“Not tonight, Lt.,” John says, willing his heart to calm down. Get a fucking grip, it’s just Ghost and he's just a man. Like himself. “Not really feeling it.”
It’s a good thing that John is not facing him. Despite Graves' betrayal, Ghost still wears his mask around here. And despite that fact, until who knows when, John can vividly read the deadpan energy radiating from him behind. A jagged steel-wall of intuition, this guy. Must’ve picked up the wrongness of his answer, or the slight difference in his posture, whatever.
“You sick, Johnny?” Ghost’s response is unexpected that John slows down. Ghost’s tone when he asks that throws John off even more.
“I’m not a medic still, Lt.,” John replies with a passive sigh, hoping he sounds sick but reassuring enough. He changes his mind on the hallway to turn, heading straight way to his room when he hears Ghost grumble intangibly under his breath. Fuck this, he’ll return the gears in the morning when Ghost is not around. “Better head back now, don’t you think? Don’t have me saving a seat for you tonight.”
John arrives at the doorway of his room when Ghost catches up with him. He physically flinches when the taller man stretches his arm out toward him without warning, and - to his absolute surprise, ruffles John’s mohawk hair with enough power to make the sergeant stumble to the side. The only thing holding him grounded is the constant purring of reminder; he knows that any significant shifting of his footings might distress the kittens' weak and small bodies, like a massive earthquake.
“Oi, fuck off–!” John yells with ire. And since his reflex is locked by his cargo, he goes with a verbal cursing when he hears Ghost chuckle after retracting his hand back; expecting a swing from him that never comes.
Ghost hums, scanning John's scowling face. “Yeah, you do feel warm. Like piss.” The lower part of his worn mask twitches, eyes crinkling confirming a sneer - or something else, John doesn’t know. John's focus is too distracted by his lieutenant’s voice just now; might sound flat and boringly gritty to a stranger's ears, but - it’s… a tad off to John’s.
Don’t ask him why, it just does, alright? Like crawling on the thinnest thread between mocking and bothered. There are layers there, seriously, like how Ghost prefers to be wrapped in layers of fabric no matter the weather even though people around them won't believe it if John tries. Not that he can elaborate further either, because Ghost doesn't like being touched unprompted by anyone even the slightest.
Scoffing in disbelief, John backs away while reaching for his room key. “That’s fuckin’ disgusting," he says without any real heat. He slows down his movement to depress the increase of his body temperature, heart hammering loudly on his chest because Ghost almost fucking got him. He got close enough to him to almost notice John's cargo.
Give it to Ghost for maintaining a reputation so unhinged that a teammate like him, who this lieutenant won't stop teasing the most often, is still having trouble understanding - or picking a side perhaps, on whether it's alright to be afraid of him at all. Sure, Ghost can be terrifying whenever he wants to, but it's just…
Is it really fear? Of infamous monikers or solid urban legend figures like Ghost, who came back from the dead to torture and kill people (and other living beings) as a daily basis job, fear of it as an irrational thing can be understandable and acceptable enough. But… if he's being honest, now that John knows Simon 'Ghost' Riley, he can almost declare it isn't fear that reigns whenever the lieutenant is close by him, figuratively probing around and making his business as Ghost's business too. There's a part of John that (maybe exists in everybody else as well) will tell just how ridiculous it is to feel afraid of the walking Halloween costume, with his back on him now that he’s leaving John alone to sulk.
Besides, it's also the same man who loves to assault John's ears non stop with so many terrible jokes on so many terrible nights, just to make sure the rest of them keep on going; make sure they don't abstain from finishing the dangerous missions alive. Guiding the force to the right directions; their unforgiving eyes. The same man who's sent him back home for promised vacation and holiday bonuses as one breathing piece by constant flow of dad-ish or grimmy jokes, over and over and over and over-
"Suppose your meticulous skin care routines, double cleansing what the shite ever, can't keep the lamest virus away from violating your health, huh, sergeant?"
…See? There you fucking go. How is John going to be afraid of this asshole now - does anyone even know how mouthy he is? “Rich coming from a man who reeks so much because he loves to play with piss a lot,” he retorts at Ghost’s dismissed figure. Brain and heart easily letting go of the turmoil inside to watch him go, certain now that the warmth simmering his upper body is caused by genuine annoyance because Ghost is truly fuckin' something.
Can’t help the smirk splitting on his face, though, when Ghost barks a laugh at his remark without looking back. Earning a laugh from a person like Simon 'Ghost' Riley, after everything, can be an achievement of a lifetime, you know.
Three updates so far: The kittens, as babies without their mother around to take care of them do, cry a lot for hours and threaten John to lose sleep on top of stressing over various information from internet. It also ought to give away the infiltration he does (their presence inside John's room) to some people in the base, so, he sneaks out (miraculously successful) to buy the cheapest instant milk for cats in a 24-hours convenience store and feeds them with a straw. John ends up having two accumulated hours of sleep only until daybreak, because kittens their age have to be fed every three hours according to some vet websites.
In the morning, while having brunch, John multitasks with his phone. It helps him ignore meaningful glances from MacMillan and Gaz in the mess, but isn't surprised that the two of them visit his room around late afternoon to blackmail him until John agrees to buy them some snacks. The only useful thing they say after the two of them come back from buying proper formulated milk and their bribes is that the kittens' mother isn't around even when they went out earlier, although they promise to keep on looking later.
"I wonder what the mother looks like. These furballs don't even have identical fur colours," MacMillan mumbles guilelessly as he tickles the black and white kitten in the round stomach.
"Just because they aren't all wearing tuxedos, doesn't mean they're not siblings," Gaz deadpans, leaning back on John's only desk, moving away when John sweeps the floor.
"Tuxedo...?" John furrows his eyebrows without stopping sweeping, gathering trash. He looks at the direction that Gaz is pointing at. He didn't know black and white cats are defined as (called?) tuxedo cats. "You fucking with us, Gaz?" He suspects, uncertainly.
"No, thank you." Gaz holds up his hands, and sits next to MacMillan on the clean floor, near the bedding for the kittens made of old shirts and torn balaclavas on John’s mattress. "This one with three colours is called tortilla, by the way," Gaz adds cheerfully, lifting up the three-coloured one by the back of its neck, and then MacMillan snorts a laugh out loud.
"Not tortilla!" MacMillan smacks Gaz's arm after scooting away to make some room for the well-fed kittens to roam around, bluntly judging everyone. Gaz glares at him. "Stop making shits up and just say you want to name them yourself. But at least you have to ask their new mum here for that." MacMillan looks up at John like he's complaining about an illegal activity, dodging Gaz's attempt to smack him back.
"I'm not making shit up!" Gaz defends himself, putting the three-coloured kitten down when it begins to yelp louder than it's supposed to. He grumbles, "look it up. Go on. Where's your phone?"
It is, in fact, after some typing furiously that has John shaking his head, not called tortilla cat at all. "It's calico, you dimwit," MacMillan says, showing the screen of his phone toward him. He looks smug and annoyed at the same time.
"What! No way." Gaz looks so aghast and John doesn’t need to get a second look to be aware that he is not faking it. Snatching MacMillan's phone to look it up himself, Gaz nearly wrestles MacMillan when he still doesn't admit that he's wrong if it's not because of John's frustrated hushing at them. "I’m not lying, it's tortilla! Look at it! It's not even the same as the images showing here—"
"Shut up, you two, or get out of my room before somebody comes in because of the ruckus you both caused!”
John kicks both of them out of his room when they continue their quarrel with equal stubbornness, yet they're still arguing in the hallway. He lets out a harsh sigh when he sees that neither of them are clearing up the mess they made in his room, about to lock his door from the inside again. At some point, however, the bickering stops in the faraway. Listening closely with his one ear planted on his closed door, John hears Gaz speaks loudly to someone else.
“MacTavish is currently having a nasty headache, sir. He kicked us out before we got inside,” Gaz exclaims with tough disappointment that it is perceptible enough to amuse John.
“And did you two tell him about Price’s order just now?”
John’s heart begins to thump quickly against his ribcage, recognizing that voice talking back to Gaz. Fuckin’- Ghost. Their- his- their lieutenant sounds confused, distrusting, and then amused. Perhaps as to why Gaz is yelling so loud to answer him, then probably he realizes that Gaz is mad at John for rejecting them visiting him so rudely. Ergo, the pathetic way he let it out loud to make John hear the hurt of a worried friend.
There’s a timid and hesitant ‘there’s an order from Captain Price, sir?’ spoken out loud, then Gaz’s voice resurfaces. He suggests going back and telling MacTavish himself to save Ghost the time and energy from being yelled at by sick John. He doesn’t deny that he sure is a lot of a bastard whenever he feels a bit under the weather. John will properly thank Gaz later for that considerate offer, for directing Ghost away from his smuggled little things.
Afterward, fuck MacMillan for reasoning with, “he won’t dare to yell at his superior, dimwit,” to ever-so-helpful Gaz, with an audible nudge as well. What the fuck, what the fuck. John waits for a while to listen some more, mind running miles per hour and sweat pooling on his palms and neck, back and forth he keeps glancing at the sleeping kittens. He can’t really hear what they’re talking about now, or whether they’ve gone separate ways. MacMillan the fucker better not sleep tonight, because John will murder him and bury his body unseen by the satellites if that gets Ghost to invite himself into John’s room to prove it himself.
Hurriedly, Soap locks his door. But after a minute, nothing is forthcoming. No footstep, no more hushed conversation in the hallway either. Is Ghost gone already? Did Gaz manage to convince that he’ll talk to John on his own about - whatever the fuck Price’s order for him is? John remembers he hasn’t met Ghost nor Price this morning. Did Ghost just fuck around with them, like a usual asshole he is…? Or is it an actual, official order—
Loud banging on his door; bang bang bang! Then followed by urging prying on its knob right away startles the shit out of John that he leaps back, rushing to the side of the sleeping kittens as silently as his panicked heart allows him to. He’s ready and not ready at the same time, but all he can do at the moment is sweating buckets as he puts up a stance. To fight for the kittens to stay? To defy his unpredictable lieutenant? His frantic brain can’t keep up just yet, to choose a choice, and he hates it so fucking much.
“MacTavish! I know you’re in there, you lazy bastard.”
Steamin’ Jesus. Ghost… Ghost is on the other side of his door, and he’s calling him by his last name. Shite. He's irritated over something. Fuck. How could John not hear Ghost walk toward this way…? Fucking Ghost living up to his name, might as well start calling him the wraith as well. But that’s not important right now, right? Because the door is locked. What John prefers to know the most is whether Ghost is alone, or is he with the other two traitors instead?
“MacTavish,” the lieutenant calls again with a grunt, snapping John’s attention, “better drink your meds before I drag your arse out here for intentionally prolonging your sick day, ya hear?”
Ah, shite. He’s got to drift Ghost off scent with his typical temper.
John squats down to cover the sleeping kitten’s ears so they don’t get startled by his rapid fire shouting. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” in Scottish is the only defense that John can put up for this, “can I not have a fucking day-off in peace for once!? Fucking Gaz and MacMillan, and now this fucking guy. Go bother someone else, Lt.!” Or so help me, Jesus fucking Christ.
Just as one of the kittens stirs to complain about the perturbing noises, Ghost points out downright cheery. “There it is. You’re wrong.” John makes a face at Ghost’s accusation before his jaw drops in incredulity, blood pressure shooting up to the roof after analyzing Ghost’s daunting voice just now as a means he’s beat someone in a challenge. Most likely MacMillan; the one tsk-ing when Ghost says, “Be an honorable gentleman I know you are, and pay up, MacMillan. Little prick will still yell at a superior like me, because he loves himself and his beauty sleep is a sacred thing. Better keep that in mind from now on.”
There’s a drawn, defeated sigh heard. “It’s because you’re you, sir,” MacMillan complains. Has the nerve to be sulky, even. Un-fucking-believable.
“Thank you for kicking his ass for me, sir,” Gaz pipes up calmly, not too far from them. Not him too!? John’s head throbs, a sign that an actual headache will form soon. He’s going to need to lay down before he kills someone out of impulse. This is off of the line, he thinks as his knuckles crack in forms of white, shaky fists.
“Didn’t do it for you,” Ghost dismisses coldly. Matter-of-factly. There’s some vague shuffling after an extended silence it causes, and John uses that brief opportunity to shush softly at the now-awake kitten next to him. “Now, move. Get going, you two. Go see Price and Laswell in HQ, the old man is antsy.”
Ghost knocks once on John’s door as the last thing he does, don’t know what for because he doesn’t say anything before he disappears. Along with the other two, from what John’s muddled ears can pick up. Great.
John lets out a breath he doesn’t remember holding, weary and relieved at the same time. Drownin’ Christ, John naturally prefers to rather be at a gunpoint right now. Wouldn’t know what he would do if Ghost opened that door with an extra key or something to see he’s smuggled not only one, but six baby animals inside the base. Wouldn’t even think if he could do it either; abandoning them on the streets again, being rained on, burnt by the sun, or worse. Devoured cruelly by so many predators out there—
John buries his face on his milk-scented bed-cover, groaning in agony. Six weeks is a long but the fastest time for him to keep these babies as the broken-leg one recovers. Eight weeks, though sadly longer, is approximately more realistic, with the absence of their mother and his missions still going; wringing the energy and time for the proper way John should help the little one heal. It’s only a matter of time for Ghost to find out, and then uses his rank to order him and throw the babies out. After all, they’re not supposed to be John’s responsibility, his lieutenant’s words back in Mexico floating around his head:
Let’s worry about you, Johnny.
John slants his head to the side to look at the kittens again. A couple of them have gained enough competency to explore everywhere, with their eyes already opened when he found them, and crash their fuzzy snouts against John’s cheek. Twice. Needle-sharp claws still unable to be sheathed by their pillowy paws scratch on him, tickling John’s face until he huffs a laugh and his shoulders shake feeling giddy.
“No way you’re hungry again, lil guy,” John rumbles when the tortilla kitten meows at him. Insistent, beyond how its short legs are still not strong enough to support its entire body. It sways to the side, falling and looking upset, and John grins from ear to ear with a clenching heart. “That’s what you get for using that tone to me.”
Okay, perhaps he’s not immune to the softness these little shits are going to cost him, they keep up the cuteness like that. Enough with the brooding, he can still try and keep them like the nation’s top secret. Didn’t he convince the two dumbasses who almost got him caught, this is only temporary? Because it is. They’re not going to be locked up here forever.
With one hand, he pulls the bundle of their bedding closer to him as he sits on the floor, the smell of piss and milk be damned to his lungs. His whole enclosed room is already contaminated by them anyways. Someday, he will let go of them so they can be free to find their own food, and create their own family somewhere. Maybe even conquer the world, who cares? He doesn’t. But that someday isn’t today, or the next few days, no. He’ll make sure they grow healthy first, and strong enough to recruit an army of terror. Overthrow the government or some shite.
And Ghost? Well, Ghost is none of these kitties’ business, he can go fuck himself if he finds out about them and goes with the extremes. John will handle him, no problem. He’s not afraid of that man at all.
For better or worse, you do not, ever, keep a secret from Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley. Especially right under his nose.
The worst scenarios, obviously, if Ghost thought the secret has the potential to endanger the lives of his fellow soldiers, he would strike on in the least moment you’d expect. So much of ‘used to work alone all the time’ truth that he said, and yet, here he is. Standing like a brick shithouse, in front of a slightly ajar door around midnight because he thought there’s an intruder. Looming in the dark after silently opening the door wider, gaze is instantly drawn downward to the wormy, crawly little cat babies scattered around like toys.
Soldier Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick in Soap’s vacant room, feeding milk to kittens on his lap with a plastic injector. There are six of them, Ghost counts hollowly, because he doesn’t want to jump into conclusion just yet. Gaz probably reads that from his mind straightaway; expression unfazed, but Ghost can still pinpoint when his blood frosted over, colour draining until he’s as blanche as Soap’s sheet as if he’s seeing the boogeyman materialized from the seamless void.
“Barging into someone’s room,” Ghost verdicts evenly, the only visible thing from him is the front part of his boots. Illuminated by the warm desk light of Soap’s room. He keeps it that way, even as Gaz cautiously raises up to his feet after putting down the kitten he’s nursing near his feet. “Not only that, but also smuggling tiny little creatures like those as well. What do you say for yourself, soldier?”
“Sir.” Gaz straightens his stance, willing himself to look at Ghost in the blackened eye as a nonverbal ask for permission to talk. Ghost nods stiffly in approval. “I was given a request by MacTavish to take care of these kittens he’s been looking after for awhile now, sir. He hasn’t come back from the previous mission, so he asked me to be a replacement for him to feed them just in case something like that happens. He, uh, he even gave me his room key...”
Ghost squints at him with hefty skepticism, though it's not entirely aimed for Gaz. So, that’s why John’s been acting quite strange to him the other day. He smuggled these wormy shits inside his room and told no one but Gaz about it. When he said he's feeling unwell… was that a lie, then?
You lied to me, Johnny, Ghost scoffs inwardly, offended. Cheeky trickster. But he is also impressed John dared to do that to him, not that it’s surprising him at all. The guy is ballsier than anyone he’s ever worked with in this place, anyone alive at least, and forever will be, he suspects. That’s why Ghost is keeping him closer than anyone else, with or without Laswell’s belated request or Price’s unsaid blessing.
A scratchy demanding meow from down below seizes Ghost’s attention. An orange kitten getting angry at the empty air, facing a wall. Gaz noticeably takes a deep breath and tenses up when Ghost decides to invade the room to examine closely at the cats near his feet. Fear and worry in Gaz’s demeanor are almost as clashing as the crippled kitten out of the bunch. Ghost stops to look at him when he blurts out, “Sir. If you’d allow me…”
“Go on.”
“I understand if you’d want to punish MacTavish by throwing these babies away somewhere for disobedience, sir, but…” Gaz stares at his eyes without any hesitation now. “Please, consider kindly, and wait for him to come back first. Wait for MacTavish to come back.”
He’s been on edge thinking about that, actually. What took them so long? It’s just logistic bullshite which is why he’s off-duty now, so Johnny can be the leader for the expedition. It has been days now. “And let him say goodbye to them like a mopey sap?” Ghost remarks fast, cocking his head to the side to look Gaz in the eye, aiming for aloof boredom but misses by kilometers.
“And let him say goodbye to them like a mopey sap.” Gaz nods the honest admission, a hardened expression on his face. The natural colour has returned too, and, oh, Ghost is familiar with that. A challenge and a surrender packed in one, but not the same as humane vulnerability. The two of them have grown fond of these strays, and they’d at least try and go down in a fight just to protect them a little longer from the wild life.
Ghost stares down to the scattered litter again, fixated in a long while at the crippled cat. He opens his mouth only to contemplatively order, “At ease.” Then, just to keep Gaz on toes still, he adds, “They’re not even the size of my boot. Might become dissolved cotton candy on water if our drivers outside don’t pay attention to them roaming the road, no one would even hear a single sound.”
You sick bastard. Ghost can automatically hear John’s response against that by heart. Normally disgusted, but that’s fine by him. Disgust is better than pity. No one needs or deserves pity in this world, it’s a waste of so many things. Impractical.
“Get out of my face, Garrick,” Ghost dictates all of a sudden, bending down to pick up the chatty orange baby cat, “if you’re done feeding them now.” He taps the kitten’s pink nose when it hisses at him, blinks when it growls after.
“Pardon, sir?” Gaz asks. He’s moving from his spot with taut mobility, clearly still biased by dispute.
“The injector.” Ghost motions to the plastic tool on his subordinate’s hand. It’s still dripping with the remaining drop of milk. Ghost can’t imagine how John is still sane this far, because these are messy creatures. That man is a clean freak. “Give it to me and go back to your room. Don’t you see there are still a handful of hungry authoritative furballs here?”
And one of them has the nerve to jump onto Ghost’s boots, trying its damnest to get the laces in between its nonexistent teeth. Wonderful. After Gaz gives him the injector, he dives down to sit on the floor, inevitably being held hostage like Gulliver by the Lilliputians. Gaz’s body language is screaming about how lost he is with this unanticipated turn of event, but he hastily tries to pry off one kitten climbing onto Ghost’s back.
“Behave, son.” Ghost doesn’t need to look to know Gaz is eyeing him warily; doesn’t know what to do now except keeping other kittens from climbing up his lieutenant. Ghost doesn’t care what he’s going to do, since he has allowed him to leave this task to him distinctly. Instead, Ghost tries to order sternly at a kitten with stripes on its back; the crippled one has been trying to chop off his finger, even though all Ghost is trying to do is feed it.
One more trial, and the crippled kitten punches the injector. Ghost elevates the hyperactive baby to his eye level so he can glower at it. Squeezes its wriggly body to tame it down just for a second.
He grouches, “are you kitten me, you little shite,” when he fails miserably.
Ghost wants to jeer when he doesn’t receive any commentaries from Gaz the whole experience. What he gets is just another pull by the fabric of his hoodie near his hip, because it’s the orange cat’s duty to vanquish this colossal in black. “Yeah, MacTavish has been having the same problem with her as well since the beginning…” Gaz says absentmindedly. How baffling, Ghost thinks. Gaz is way too uptight, plain uninteresting compared to John who likes to be more expressive.
If John was here, the sergeant would give him a shove in the bicep, or even cough before blurting Scottish nonsense about how amazing his jokes are. (They’re not.) A good man who can boost Ghost’s confidence to provide more premium entertainment such as travesties. (Not really, no.) A man with an excellent taste because he can always stand the irresistible Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley everywhere he goes. The one and only John MacTavish. Reactive in bright bursts of energy and appealing traits.
You should return here soon, Johnny.
“Go back to sleep, Garrick. I can take care of MacTavish’s children.” Ghost shoos away Gaz with a flick motion of nodding, directed to the door. When the man doesn’t budge but does stop petting the kitten on his own lap, Ghosts sighs through the nose. “Just for tonight. They can still stay here tonight, and I will - am feeding them right now. And nothing bad will happen to them, when I’m around. Not even because of me. You happy with that?”
Inhaling deeply and with enough awkwardness to create a dent on the earth’s plate, Gaz mutters out a ‘yes, sir’ before he stands up carefully. Ghost doesn’t say anything else as Gaz makes a way to the door. Not even when Gaz lingers for a couple of seconds in the doorway, deferred, until he decides to spill it out. “Do you need the room key, sir?" He asks tentatively, “because, they actually have to be fed every three hours or so. And if you, uh, if you’re planning to sleep after this—”
“Just put it on the desk and close the door,” Ghost simply cuts him off. He narrows his eyes to Gaz, certain that the white area of his eyes have turned red with how horrendous his relationship with sleep is. Has been for years. But only so few people know this, John amongst them. Gaz is a clever man if he can connect the dots just from that, which he seems like he does.
If not, then, that’s not Ghost’s problem. Just another brick accidentally being stacked on to the stronghold of his useful reputation. Another soldier’s fueled fear of him is just another fortification of the contrast against the mundanity of life. Of him being a behemoth of a monster, so primal and unstoppable, just like MacTavish’s army of terror with tiny needle-shaped claws that has reached the back of his mask.
Gulliver 0 : 1 Lilliputians.