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The instinct of the human body, when falling into cold water, was to gasp as much air or water as it could manage— no amount of training made any difference. The bullets slammed squarely into his vest, three in rapid succession; MacTavish fell back into the black water, and Ghost was left on the bank to watch.
They were by the side of a canal, next to two bridges in the dead of night, the rain roaring against the place. It was six against two, and he and MacTavish had shaved it down to three, bodies scattered about the edge of the water— the droplets were still falling, and Ghost struck.
Two bullets from his pistol, the third one left fell.
A kick to the side, a knife dragged in a facsimile of a smile across the neck, and the second followed, blood spreading in a puddle.
The last watched from the bridge not twenty feet up, red reticle of his scope barely visible in the thick rain; two bullets flew over Ghost’s head as he ripped a grenade from his vest, hurled it towards him and fired four bullets in the air. One hit it metres from its target, and the grenade exploded in a firework of gunpowder and blood. The smoke dissipated, and the man wasn’t standing any more, the railing of the bridge blown to pieces.
They were on the quays under a city, abandoned for miles, a canal that wound under the warehouses of the city and met with the mouth of the river far from the watchful eyes of the customs agents, a perfect haunt for smugglers. The rain was coming down so hard it was difficult to keep his eyes open against it; breathing hard, Ghost looked at the water, and glanced down at his watch.
Fifteen seconds— he turned to the inky water, heart hammering, but there was no movement. The water was deep enough that even someone kicking at the bottom would barely show up on the surface, and what did would be cloaked by rain; standard protocol gave thirty seconds to wait before jumping in after, but the longer he waited, the more anxious he got.
Two drowning soldiers wasn’t better than one, Ghost reminded himself, staring at the water where he had fallen— twenty seconds— the only thing worse than cold water shock was jumping in unprepared, blind— twenty five— they were trained to survive drowning, to swim in all conditions, and MacTavish was the best of the best; Ghost had to trust that he would be okay, that—
Thirty seconds on his watch, and Ghost dropped his rifle, ripped off his vest and tugged the mask off without a second thought. The air was immediately icy on his face, rain already beginning to soak his hair— with no lights, the water was as black as the sky, and twice as imposing. The rain drummed against the water where it lapped against the concrete walls of the river; Ghost climbed into the water to his waist first, immediately feeling his muscle seize and the panic that came with not being able to feel his feet on the floor. Forcing his breathing to slow, he kicked his feet, keeping his muscles warm— he had to focus, had to stay calm, and with a final look around for hostiles, dived under the water.
He forced his eyes open, the dirty water immediately burning; closing them, Ghost swam blindly downwards, hoping the water wasn’t pushing him off course. His fingers collided with something plasticky, and he immediately drew back, but it felt like litter— he shoved past it, and kept swimming down, until he felt the slimy leaves of pondweed against his hands. Quieter the further he went, the pressure was already making his head pound, and his lungs were burning; he felt around blindly, panic mounting as he found nothing— finally, when he couldn’t stay under anymore, he swam upwards, air icily cold as his head breached the surface. Far from the walls, and untethered from the ground, he felt another wave of panic that he choked down, taking deep gulps of air as he blinked water from his eyes, legs kicking to keep his head above the choppy water. Not yet sated, he tucked his head to his chin and dived again, kicking harder; his clothes were already becoming heavy, and he swam with arms outstretched, eyes screwed shut—
His hands collided with fabric.
At once, Ghost was on it, taking a fistful of it to drag himself towards it— his hands moved up, around, and he felt the familiar weight of his vest, MacTavish’s sweatshirt, his chest, his head—
Ghost kicked towards him— there was no light, but he swam opposite him like he could see him, head pounding and nearly dizzy with something entirely separate to the water. MacTavish’s chin was on his chest; he took a hand to his chin and shook it, feeling for his face, for his eyes—
Closed.
His eyes were closed.
His lungs were burning again— he didn’t waste anymore time, muscles working against the cold threatening to seep in as he took two fistfuls of his vest by his shoulders, faced up, and kicked. He got all of a metre up before MacTavish suddenly pulled tight; the punch of surprise it earned him came out as a bubble between his lips, dirty water flooding into his mouth. There wasn’t anything for it— against all his instincts, Ghost let go of him and swam upwards, the surface suddenly seeming so much further away. He kept swimming, kept kicking, but in the pitch black, he was suddenly struck with the irrational panic that he wasn’t moving at all.
If they both drowned, if he couldn’t save them, if Ghost had managed to kill them both—
His head broke through the surface a second time; he sucked in air so fast he choked on it, coughing and spluttering in the rain as he barely managed to keep his head above the surface. It was so loud, and he was so cold he could feel it in his bones, muscles already threatening exhaustion; his eyes were stinging— whether it was from the water, or anything else, he wasn’t sure.
He didn’t have another option, though; unholstering the knife he kept in his thigh, he dived down again, squeezing his eyes shut. He swam back down to the best approximation of where he had left MacTavish, but when he felt nothing but water, he felt panic so harsh that his entire chest felt like it was squeezing— turning blindly, feeling something far too close to terror, he swam to the floor, following it— finally, he found MacTavish’s legs, a boot wrapped in the pondweed. In one long arc, he cut through it all and dragged MacTavish upwards, dropping the knife in the river. With the additional weight, it felt like he wasn’t moving at all as he kicked and pulled— blind, deaf, unable to open his mouth or eyes in the dirty water, he tried desperately to keep calm, ignoring the burn in his muscles and the dead weight in his arms, head pounding.
His hands threatened to slip where he was holding MacTavish under his arms— too scared to lose him to the water, Ghost wrapped his arms around his chest and swam until the back of his head slammed into the wall. He saw stars, choking on water— finally, with what felt like everything he had, he kicked up. Lungs screaming, he broke through the surface; his mouth fell open as he dragged in breath after breath, air cold and dirty and the best thing he had ever tasted. Hoisting MacTavish up against his chest, he made sure his head was above the surface as he felt blindly behind him for the edge of the canal. He blinked water from his eyes as he dragged himself onto the edge, keeping one fistful of MacTavish’s vest as he did— finally, he dragged MacTavish up onto the , pulling him past the concrete against the gravel until his feet were out of the canal. Slumping back, Ghost drew in breath after breath, wiping hair from his forehead.
All his gear was still in a pile, nearly twenty feet from where he had come out of the water, the two dropped bodies still by it— he hadn’t even realised he had moved that far. Lying back against the floor, he looked at his watch— three minutes in all, and it had passed in the blink of an eye. Big droplets of rain were still falling, catching the far streetlights; Ghost blinked them from his eyes, catching his breath.
“Didn’t much fancy a swim,” he said, looking over, “but I s’pose it’s— sir?”
MacTavish was still. Ghost froze as he noticed; eyes closed, pallid and pale, he hadn’t moved at all since he had dragged him there, not even to readjust his head against the puddle he was in—
“No.”
He wasn’t moving; Ghost scrambled up on his knees, ripping off a glove with his teeth to press two fingers to his neck— his skin was cold to the touch, and Ghost’s fingers were practically numb— he pressed so far he thought it would bruise, but all he could feel was the faintest flutter under his skin.
“No. No— no, no—”
He hadn’t moved— Ghost drew his hand back like he’d been scalded, before frantically pulling off his vest— he dragged it over his head, before pressing his ear to his chest.
“No— sir— captain—”
He sat up and found the spot with his fingers, running them down the centre seam of his ribs before landing a third of the way up from the bottom of his ribcage; interlacing his fingers, he braced the heel of his hands, and pressed.
Once, twice, again and again. He felt terrifyingly short of breath, counting in his head— he was freezing in the air, shaking, but MacTavish was still, not moving as each compression punched a tiny wheeze between his lips. Ghost’s cheeks were burning, as were his eyes; he bit his lip until he tasted copper, counting to thirty— water dripped from his hair, from his eyelashes, but MacTavish didn’t move—
“Sir— c’mon, captain— get up—”
Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty. He moved to his head, knees raking against the gravel. He’d barely been able to stomach physical contact since Mexico, but his heart was racing too fast to even think about hesitating. He tilted his head up, pinching his nose— Ghost stopped short though, when he realised his lips were tinged blue, visible even in the night.
“Don’t do this,” he whispered, voice wobbling; screwing his eyes shut, he drew his face closer, feeling the scratch of stubble against his face— “don’t do this to me, sir.”
Two rescue breaths, lips cold like a corpse. Some sick part of his mind went to Vernon, and he gritted his jaw against the catch of breath that threatened to spill out— thirty more chest compressions, ignoring the way he could taste the water, the way all his muscles seemed to be screaming in protest and the way the pit of hopelessness felt like a physical weight in his chest. Water was still dripping down his face and down his back, eyes burning— he was still talking, trying to get MacTavish to reply, needling him to get him to say something, anything—
“Come on— c’mon, sir, get up— don’t— sir, don’t leave me here—”
Thirty, again— Ghost’s lips were trembling from the cold, and he pressed them against his, emptying his lungs until they ached— he drew in air an inch from his face, MacTavish’s skin pale and blotchy, before doing it again—
“John—” he swallowed down the rest of the sentence, too aware in the roaring silence of how pathetic he sounded, “get up, please. John.”
He didn’t reply. Ghost shifted over his chest, pressing his lips together— he wiped at his face to clear his eyes, bracing his hands over his chest— thirty more chest compressions, and it didn’t matter that his arms were aching and his chest was heaving, because he couldn’t— wouldn’t— stop. Once, pressing the heels of his hands into his chest, twice, breathing coming hard in his chest, three times— and then finally, on the fourth time, the wheeze the chest compression pushed from MacTavish’s chest kept going, the sound wet and garbled until MacTavish drew in all the air he could into his chest— he coughed, spluttered, and breathed.
He rolled onto his side, choking and gasping for air— Ghost could have cried, but what came out was a breathless sort of laugh, barely audible, and he held MacTavish’s shoulder to keep him steady as he coughed out all the water in his lungs.
“You’re— fuck, you’re alright,” Ghost told him, all at once aware of how out of breath he was, how absolutely wrung out he felt. “Get it out, sir, you’re okay.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” MacTavish choked out— finally, the colour in his cheeks was returning, and Ghost kept running his hand over the sodden fabric until the coughing seemed to slow. He was still gasping for air, but his eyes were open, looking around; his eyes found Ghost first, eyebrows furrowed at the lack of mask before his expression seemed to soften— his hand came up, catching Ghost’s cheek and raking through what he could reach of his hair.
“Where’s yer mask, lad?” He barely breathed, voice soft and gravelly; Ghost felt something stab in his throat, and he shook his head, pushing his hair back.
“Over there, with the rest of my gear. Can you walk?”
“Clothes’re bloody soaked,” he grumbled, but sat up; Ghost nodded, getting to shaky legs to pick up his gear. It was quiet, empty aside from the water lapping against the concrete— the truck was waiting for them just under a mile away; Ghost stayed close to his side, MacTavish keeping an arm around him to keep him close.
The safehouse within the city was a nondescript apartment, well out of the way of traffic and far from any prying eyes. The truck was hid in a garage a half mile from the house, and they walked the rest of the way, the path desolate and dark. No cameras, no hostiles, and scoped out for potential surveillance just six days before, they were definitely secure— regardless, Ghost made yet another circuit of the space, a studio apartment with two windows and pink wallpaper; everything salvageable in MacTavish’s vest was organised to dry by the heaters, and everything else was already in the bin. The rain was still coming down against the windows, but it was warm inside, the light a soft yellow. MacTavish, sat up in bed in his T-shirt and boxers and uploading the intel to their encrypted server, scowled as he watched Ghost move.
“Ghost.”
“What?”
“You pacin’ isn’t goin’ to make the place warmer any faster, is it?”
“It might,” Ghost pointed out, turning on his heel at the kitchen. He wanted a cup of tea, but he still felt too keyed up to drink any caffeine; even under the fatigue and the exhaustion, the muscles in his shoulders still felt tight like he had just come out of a fight, hands restless. He turned on his heel in the kitchenette, walking back the length of the place to the window—
“Riley.”
“What?”
It came out harsher than he meant; never one to back down from a challenge, MacTavish’s expression hardened.
“Go change out your clothes, at least, they’re soaked through.”
“Nothing else to wear,” Ghost muttered, half glancing out the window; the view, unsurprisingly, hadn’t changed.
“Wear my clothes. They must be dry by now.”
“‘S fine.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
His hands hadn’t stopped shaking; his gloves were laid out in front of the heater, and even though he wasn’t nearly as cold, his hands hadn’t stopped shaking. MacTavish was still looking at him, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed. His hair was still slightly damp, not from the water but from where Ghost had all but shoved him under the stream of hot water in the shower to warm up— his cheeks had returned to the right colour, though, and he wasn’t even shivering.
He stifled the urge to squirm under his gaze, forcing himself to be still by sheer will; squaring his shoulders, he balled his hands into fists and finally met his eye. To his surprise, MacTavish’s expression softened slightly; wholly unsure what to do with the sudden lack of hostility, Ghost gritted his jaw and braced.
“C’mon,” MacTavish said instead, gentler in a way that had his stomach turning, “let’s get to bed. Won’t be able to sleep with you totterin’ around all night. We’re wheels up at 0730.”
The rest of the canal went down the drain in rivulets, barely brown as his clothes had stopped the worst of the dirt from reaching his skin. His hair, though, immediately pressed under the mask after he had got out and unbearable against his head, was full of the dirt of the water— he scrubbed it clean with sudsy soap, as there wasn’t any shampoo, fingers smarting against the spot where he had hit his head against the wall. Finally, as clean as he could get himself and feeling the water as it started to turn cold, he switched off the tap and stepped outside.
The hoodie, a dark grey-blue, smelled like MacTavish’s aftershave, warm and spiced; he rolled up the trousers, and like an afterthought, pulled on the mask. It was unnecessary, and still smelled like the air of the river, but it tethered him to the present, to their tiny apartment safehouse; folding up his damp clothes, he stepped outside.
To his surprise, MacTavish had already gone to sleep, the lights off— the laptop, along with what had dried out of their gear, had already been packed away, ready to be picked up when they’d leave. His own clothes went in front of the heater to dry, spread out; MacTavish’s head was still very much in the mission, and Ghost didn’t know why he couldn’t do the same. Why he couldn’t stop thinking about the canal, or the rain, or the smell of putrefaction, three months dead, skin slimy and maggots writhing where it had split—
MacTavish shifted in his sleep, half in the blanket. Like any good soldier, he’d trained himself to fall asleep wherever and whenever he could. He’d left half of the bed, and Ghost sat down carefully, trying not to jostle the mattress as he looked over at him.
In sleep, the frown he wore finally settled, but it stayed as a line above one eyebrow, like he had permanently woven the vigilance into his skin. Sun had tanned the skin across his nose— his eyes were softly closed, the scar through his eyebrow mashed with his face against the pillow. He had a few more scars around; a constellation of little marks across one cheek, and two matching white scars, one in his hairline and one in his beard where the hair refused to grow around. His nose had been broken and set, a little bump between his eyes, and there was a smattering of moles around his face. Two, nearly in a line, pointed to his lips where they were slightly parted, breath escaping between them.
Swallowing, Ghost pulled the blankets up to his chin before he lied down properly, watching the rise and fall from his chest. He’d never begged to anyone else, and never for this; the curtains were still cracked from where he had been looking through them, and a shaft of white light from the street caught the rain and the contour of his chest and the line of his lips as he breathed.
Breathing, Ghost reminded himself, screwing his eyes shut. He slipped under the blanket, burrowing into the hoodie— he was breathing, he was there, and he was alright.
When he woke up, what little light there was in the room was gone. He blinked, wondering if MacTavish had climbed out of bed just to close the curtains, but it was pitch black. Shuffling about, Ghost reached out—
And felt splintering wood under his hands.
He froze, breath catching in his chest— breath that he could feel against his face, shoved between the door of the coffin and the soft of decomposing flesh. Horror squeezed his throat, stealing the air from his lungs; he gasped, and immediately regretted it when he smelt the body. It was pitch black, but he could hear insects skittering it about, in his ears and in his mouth— he couldn’t see his hands, and suddenly wondered if he was dead too, if they’d killed him and buried him, forgotten about him under the soil—
He clawed at the wood, splinters falling into his eyes and in his mouth— unable to hold his breath anymore against the smell of flesh, he choked out a breath, feeling the liquid of decomposition seeping into his skin. His knees collided with the wood as he kicked, tearing against the wood— increasingly frantic, he twisted, and tried to get something, anything to break through the wood; his elbow collided with the body behind him and the ribcage gave. Viscera squelched against his back as he hit the bottom of the coffin amid splintering bone, and he gagged, choking on air— squeezing his eyes shut, steeling himself, he turned to Vernon.
It wasn’t Vernon, though.
All the air felt like it was punched from his stomach; he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, transfixed.
The corpse had blue lips, and Ghost couldn’t breathe— he could hear his own lungs as they choked and gasped for air, but nothing was coming in to his chest; his head was pounding, eyes burning— maggots crawled between his fingers and through his hair, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe—
Something heavily and purposefully raked down the back of his head and over his back. He jerked away from the sensation, but instead of the wood of the coffin, his forehead collided with something soft and firm; he tried to move back, but an arm came around his shoulders and the hand raked over his head again, heavy and grounding. He could hear whimpering, soft and pathetic, but more than that, he could feel someone speaking to him, reverberating through him.
“Breathe for me. I got you, you’re okay. You can do it— you’re alright, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Can’t— fuck, fuck, I can’t, I can’t do it—”
“Sh, sh,” he murmured, soft and gentle in his ear, “yeah, you can. You’re alright, you’re okay.”
The mask was humid, sticking to his face and his cheeks; Ghost shifted, trying to pull away to make space between them, and MacTavish’s arm came tight— in the little space he managed, he tugged the mask up, barely getting it up and over his mouth— MacTavish, apparently understanding, let go of his hair to help him get it up and over his head, knuckles raking against his face. As soon as his face was clear, he pressed his face into his chest, if only to hear his heartbeat; he took deep breaths of his air, taking in his aftershave and the smell of soap and the heat radiating off of him. They were half sat up on the bed, he seemed to realise; MacTavish shifted back, as if he was trying to get a look at his face. Suddenly seized by a panic he couldn’t explain, Ghost took two fists of his T-shirt and buried his face in it, jaw gritting as he braced for whatever would come next—
“Oh,” MacTavish murmured, tender in a way Ghost had never had directed at him— “oh, Riley, lad, you’re okay. You’re okay, now.”
He sniffled, eyes squeezing shut; he heard MacTavish make a soft sound into his ear, and forced himself to zero in on the way the hand raking through his hair was warm, alive. Blunt nails ran over his scalp, in an arc over his ear and down the back of his head. The roaring in his ears had stopped, and he could hear the steady thump of MacTavish’s heart, loud and steady.
They were still in the apartment, the sound of rain a soft static, smoothing the edges of the place. The heaters were still running, the place illuminated by the dull red light— somewhere, MacTavish must have switched on the lamp, and the place was aglow in muted yellow light. Finally, Ghost pulled back; he rested his cheek against his chest, fists loosening slightly.
“Sorry,” Ghost muttered softly, as MacTavish found a scar by his temple, a short divot in the skin— he ran the groove of his thumbnail across it.
“No,” MacTavish replied, “nothin’ to be sorry about. It’s okay.”
“You solid, sir?” Ghost asked, tilting his head up; his chin dug into his chest, but MacTavish didn’t seem to care, wiping a thumb under his eye.
“Fine. You?”
“I—” Ghost hesitated against the instinctive lie, somehow unable to when he was making eye contact— MacTavish brushed a thumb under his eye again, and Ghost leant into his palm, chasing the warmth. “I’ll be fine.”
“Course,” MacTavish nodded, eyes soft. He raked over his expression, eyebrows furrowing slightly; Ghost watched the movement, confused.
“Captain?”
“Nothin’,” MacTavish replied, blinking it off— “don’t worry about it.”
Ghost frowned; he watched MacTavish hesitate, carding a hand through his hair again as he seemed to deliberate what he would say next.
“Earlier,” he began, voice careful— “what were you sayin’ to me?”
“Earlier?”
“At the canal.”
Ghost paused, mouth opening and closing for a second; MacTavish seemed to notice, and he felt his grip on him tighten slightly, like he was bracing for him to run. He licked at dry lips, hesitating—
“Why?”
“You—,” MacTavish began, before breaking off. Ghost shifted, at once away of how close they were; MacTavish was still looking at him with that same steady look, eyebrows slightly furrowed— the weight of it bore on his chest, and Ghost shifted to put some space between them, sitting up on his legs.
“Just sounded like you were sayin’ the same thing, s’all,” MacTavish replied finally, looking at him carefully— acutely aware of how exposed his face was in the lamplight, his hands balled into fists— “while you were sleepin’, I mean.”
Ghost blinked, before his cheeks suddenly heated; his eyebrows furrowed defensively, and MacTavish barely had a hand on his shoulder before he was pushing him off.
“I didn’t say anything to you.”
“Ghost.”
He was still sitting on him— the pleading was embarrassing enough, but he was so close to him, and he couldn’t remember when that had happened— when had he allowed such a weak spot to form? He’d hid all the tender parts of himself under layers of scar tissue and body armour, hiding the little slivers of what he had left of himself in the safety of his ribs— and yet, obvious like bruises on skin, he’d let it spread, cancerous; it had nearly suffocated him that day, dragged him under inky water, and what would come next—?
He’d survived hell on Earth and he had never begged, but he’d heard the muted heartbeat on the banks of the canal and had practically come undone— what would happen the day there wasn’t a heartbeat, the day he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, careful enough—
“Simon?” MacTavish asked, voice careful and tender and wrong, already bracing for him to break apart; a hand came to his upper arm, and he jerked back like he had been branded, eyes flying wide—
“What’re you doing, captain?”
His voice came out high; he stood up jerkily, and when MacTavish sat up straight like he was going to follow, he took a step back, shoulders tensing— MacTavish lifted his hands, placating.
“What d’you mean?”
“This. What’re you doing, sir— what is this?”
“Riley,” MacTavish began, standing carefully; Ghost’s hand twitched to the knife holstered on his thigh, before remembering it was at the bottom of the canal, still. He couldn’t bring himself to take another step back, and squared his shoulders, gritting his jaw—
“What d’you mean, this?” MacTavish asked, coming closer; Ghost stiffened, bracing, and suppressed a shudder as MacTavish came closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. And it felt like he was going mad— this seemed plainly obvious to Ghost, the soft touches and words, the joking, the compassion; the only person who Ghost would abandon his weapons for, the only person who he’d dive blindly into water for, the only person who he’d trust to sleep in the same bed— he felt a surge of something like anger at the fact that MacTavish didn’t even seem to realise—
“You’re my captain,” Ghost gritted out, because it was true— it had never been like this for any of his superior officers, and the last betrayal he’d been stupid enough to let himself have had ended up in a coffin— at once, the hand on his shoulder was unbearable and he ripped it off, anger flaring—
“Fucking— stop fucking touching me, would you?!”
“Riley—”
“You’re my superior officer, so fucking act like it!” He spat out, taking several steps back; he regretted the words as soon as they came out his mouth, uncharacteristic hurt spilling across MacTavish’s features— to his horror, he felt the burn of tears in his eyes, and turned away, stalking off to the kitchenette. Desperate to do something, anything with his hands, he flicked the button to the electric kettle on, rummaging through the cupboards. Two mismatched mugs tapped against the counter as he took them out— he opened a cupboard and found it empty, so he opened two more until he found an old, dusty box of tea bags. Ignoring the stare boring into the back of his head, he wiped at his eyes on his— MacTavish’s— sleeves, dropping a teabag into each cup as the kettle flicked off, water bubbling.
“Lieutenant,” MacTavish began, just as he picked up the kettle— Ghost stiffened, tensing, but when MacTavish paused, carefully poured water into the first cup.
“If I’ve overstepped, here, or—” MacTavish began, tone so gentle Ghost flinched— the water suddenly spilled over his hand, and he swore, ripping it back. At once, MacTavish was at his side, taking the kettle and putting it down on the counter, reaching for his hand; Ghost jerked it away, breath catching—
“Would you fuck off?!”
MacTavish did; just for a second, he felt like he could breathe, but MacTavish suddenly had a fistful of his hoodie, and slammed him back into the wall. For the second time that night, the back of his head collided with the wall, in the exact same spot as earlier— sparks of pain exploded from the contact, and he wrestled back—
“Act like your superior fuckin’ officer? How about you watch your bloody mouth, lieutenant, and act with some fuckin’ respect?” MacTavish spat out, voice low as he pulled Ghost by the hoodie to the sink; before he could say anything, he wheeled him around to face the sink and turned the tap on, dragging his hand under the water. He stood directly behind Ghost, stopping him from slinking away and holding him there with a hand to his other arm;. His head was pounding in tandem with his racing heartbeat, and the skin of his hand was throbbing. It was only a surface injury, though, the skin just red; MacTavish’s grip was deceptively gentle, and he imagined he could rip his grip away— the next moment, though, the hand on his upper arm was replaced with one between his shoulderblades, and MacTavish stepped back.
“Oh— shit, I—”
“What?” Ghost asked, turning— MacTavish’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern.
“I didn’t mean to— hit you that hard, Christ—” MacTavish muttered, a hand to the back of his head as he pushed a thumb into the skin surrounding the wound; Ghost touched it with his other hand, feeling wet blood on his hands. When he looked over, though, MacTavish looked horrified— Ghost blinked at his expression, but the next moment he was switching off the tap and leading him back to the bed, only stopping to pick up the AFAK out of Ghost’s vest.
“Sit down. Look at the floor for me.”
“Must’ve reopened,” Ghost told him, glaring at the blood on his fingers; and then, off of MacTavish’s look— “from earlier.”
“When did you cut your head open?” MacTavish asked, alarmed; Ghost wiped his hands together, looking up at him.
“In the water. Earlier. I was—” Ghost began, before hesitating— “it was while we were getting out.”
MacTavish’s eyebrows furrowed, before he seemed to understand— his mouth opened and closed, before he opened the AFAK and pulled out an alcohol wipe, tearing it open.
“Look down,” he said again, tone softer; Ghost did, and braced a knee in the mattress, gently pressing the wipe to the skin around his wound. Ghost stifled the hiss by biting the inside of his cheek— MacTavish murmured soft reassurances, before he seemed to stop himself, going silent.
His eyes were still burning; his hands were fists on his thighs, arms straight. All at once, the alcohol came over the cut and Ghost suddenly hissed—
“Sorry— sorry,” MacTavish murmured, voice soft— he pushed his head a little further down, a thumb gentle through his hair, “I’ll be gentle.”
Tears burned in Ghost’s eyes, thick and welling; fucking humiliating, but before he could even stop them, they were spilling over his cheeks.
Because that was it, the crux of the problem— as far as Ghost would push, as much as he would wrestle and shout and shove, MacTavish wouldn’t hurt him— and how could he live with such a weakness, how was he supposed to survive when this didn’t even mean anything to MacTavish, when this wasn’t anything to him and it was everything Ghost had—
“Ghost— shit, Riley—” his voice broke through, and the pressure in the mattress suddenly lifted as he stood in front of him— he hid his face in his hands, and MacTavish was gently trying to prise his hands away— “I— fuck, if I was hurtin’ you, you should’ve said something—”
“Your lips— for fuck’s sake, your lips were blue—” Ghost cried out, lowering his hands to glare up at him— anger was burning in his cheeks and in his throat, and he balled his hands into fists into his lap— “your lips were blue, and I couldn’t do fucking anything! You weren’t waking up!”
The rain was still thrumming against the window. The light was on, and the streetlight was still reflecting off MacTavish, outshone by the light but visible where it reflected in his eyes. The back of Ghost’s neck was burning with embarrassment; when MacTavish didn’t say anything, just looked at him with the same unreadable expression, he buried his face in his hands again.
“And— and I didn’t know what to do, what I was s’posed to do, what— I don’t know what I’d’ve done.”
“You did everything right, lad,” MacTavish murmured, voice soft— he wasn’t trying to touch him, he realised, and that was his fault too— Ghost shook his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “I wasn’t worried. I had you.”
“I’m going to fuck it up,” Ghost muttered, hands taking fists of his hair— “sir— captain— I don’t know what I’d do—”
“Simon— you did everythin’ right,” MacTavish insisted, pulling his hands from his hair— “the only reason I’m not— that I’m fine is because you got me out the water, you did CPR, you managed to get this apartment so warm I think I’ve managed to sweat out anything left in my lungs—”
“You’re the only person that calls me Simon anymore,” Ghost admitted, miserable, fucking pathetic; he took a shuddering breath in, and the next admission was somehow worse: “you scared the shit out of me.”
MacTavish had his wrists in his hands, grip gentle to keep him from hiding his face; Ghost stared at them without really seeing, all too aware of the heat off the heaters and the humidity in the apartment and MacTavish, the way he could practically imagine him deliberating over words the same way he’d deliberate over mission plans.
“I’m— Simon,” he said finally, “I’m sorry.”
“No—” Ghost was already cutting him off, huffing a wet laugh— “no, sir, this wasn’t your fault, and— this isn’t your problem—”
“Stop,” MacTavish ordered, and that was it. Ghost’s mouth snapped shut, and he finally looked up— MacTavish’s eyes were gentle, and he forced himself to meet them. MacTavish, to his surprise, smiled very slightly, wiping at his eyes with the pad of his thumb. The next moment, it faded, though, and carefully, he lifted a hand to Ghost’s face, stopping an inch short as he looked for his reaction.
It didn’t feel any less frustrating, the way he had no clue what to do when he was handled with care— but there were two very clear options, and for once he tried not to think, pulling his face towards his hand.
“I’m okay,” MacTavish murmured, and Ghost let his eyes close, trying to control his breathing as he cupped his face. “Ghost, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m okay. You got me, I’m not leavin’ you. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“I know, I know— I’m sorry.”
“Sh, now, nothin’ be be sorry about,” he murmured, and Ghost let his eyes open slowly; MacTavish wasn’t upset, though, and was tracing over his face with his eyes like was trying to commit it to memory. He spotted him looking, and smiled softly— Ghost, in response, took a hand to his wrist to hold it still and turned his face inwards, before bringing it down in front of him and turning it over in his hands, looking at the scars and calluses.
Alive, warm.
Soft when they squeezed his.
“I’m— I’m sorry,” Ghost said again, insistent, pushing past the way MacTavish was hushing him softly again— “I’m sorry I— I made this harder than it had to be.”
“I don’t mind,” MacTavish replied idly, voice light like he really didn’t; Ghost drank in his steady presence. The light from outside was still reflected in his eyes, but when he turned to look out the window, the clouds were very slightly lighter than they had been, and the rain wasn’t nearly as loud— turning back to MacTavish, who was packing away the AFAK, Ghost traced the scar over his eyebrow with his eyes, before stifling a yawn.
“Ruined my bloody first aid kit,” MacTavish muttered to no one in particular; a little amused, Ghost shifted on the bed to watch.
“What now?” He asked, when he realised the silence MacTavish was leaving was for him. Zipping up the kit, he looked over.
“I dunno. D’you want to go back to bed? We’ve got hours.”
“Yeah,” Ghost replied, before he could stop himself— “I mean, if you are.”
The rain was definitely slowing by the time they got into bed again, side by side; Ghost gave a sidelong glance at their two cups, abandoned and definitely getting cold, and found that he didn’t care as much as he should have. The lights were off, and the heaters were, too, so the room was a little cooler. The hoodie was soft, and he pulled up the hood before turning to MacTavish, shifting a little closer to him.
“You said you weren’t worried,” Ghost murmured; MacTavish turned to him, the sliver of light catching his eyelashes and the fine lines on his face.
“I was,” he confessed, quiet. “But you were right behind me, weren’t you?”
“Always,” Ghost agreed, barely a whisper. “Just—…” he added, and his voice fell a little quieter, “don’t go where— don’t go where I can’t follow you, sir.”
“I’m not leavin’ you behind,” MacTavish replied, so earnest it made Ghost’s teeth ache; he looked up at him, almost surprised, and MacTavish met it with that same look, all the harsh edges of his expression softened in a way he never got to see on anyone else.
The moment stretched; finally, MacTavish let his head rest back, looking at the ceiling, and Ghost looked back to the window. He could see individual droplets, rolling down the pane— carefully, he wrapped an arm around MacTavish, curling into him.
“Hoodie suits you,” MacTavish said out of the blue, as he pulled him a little closer— “matches your eyes.”
“Think I’ve got pretty eyes?” Ghost teased, pulling back to flutter his eyelashes at him. MacTavish huffed a laugh, but stared a little too long, before shaking his head.
“Always bloody lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, more to himself than Ghost. “Batting your lashes at me. Give you anythin’ you wanted if you just asked.”
“Anything?” Ghost echoed, smile not quite hiding a sort of sincerity unfamiliar to men of their kind. MacTavish’s lips quirked in a half smile, almost abashed, but he didn’t shake his head— letting his head settle in the juncture of his chest and shoulder, Ghost was quiet.
“Stay,” Ghost murmured, drawing circles with his finger into his chest. “And— let me stay, too.”
“Anything,” MacTavish repeated, as good as an answer as any, raking a hand through his hair again. Ghost yawned again, blinking hard. The hand in his hair lulled him to sleep as it ran through his hair, blunt nails raking against his scalp; and in the morning, the sunlight was white through the clouds.