Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

  Ghost's sitting cross-legged on the narrow bunk, back pressed to the freezing corrugated wall of the temporary sleeping unit, feet tucked under a thermal blanket like he's cold—which he isn't. Not anymore. Not since the letter. His fingers are cramping from the way he's been holding the page. It's creased now. Doesn't matter. He's read it twelve times. Might as well read it thirteen.

  He drops his head back against the wall. Hard. He wants it so badly he feels sick. The toothbrushes, the boots, the boring conversation, the sex—

  "Fuck."

  The page flutters against his leg as the heater rattles. He flattens it again. His eyes dart as he rereads it frantically.

  The oat biscuits. The laundry. The jumper. The bed. And then—

  He tries to write something in reply. Anything. He's got paper folded in half, resting against his thigh. Pen in his hand. He's scrawled five sentences and crossed them all out.

  For a moment he thinks, well, two can play at that game.

  Imagine I'm in your room. Or barracks. And I happen to be shirtless or something and there's touching etc. And then we do stuff. I'm really clever and good at it somehow. Also you explode from how sexy I am.

  He tosses the pen aside and scrubs his hands down his face. How the hell does J write this stuff? Oh God, what is he gonna write back? How do you answer someone who wrote you into their home? Into their life?

  He tries again, gets out a fresh page, puts pen to paper and writes two words:

  He stares at it for ten minutes.

  Eventually he gives up and lies back with one arm across his eyes like it might press the image out of his mind, the hum of the morning radio, the tea rings on the counter, the sound of boots being untied in a quiet room. He folds the letter again, slower this time. Slips it inside The Waves, back where everything that he doesn't know what to do with goes. Nestled beside a cathedral. Beneath a sketch of his own hands.

  It hits him suddenly that… that could be his. It could all be his. All he has to do is ask. There's a swelling feeling in his chest, as though he's on the precipice of something.

  He stares at the ceiling until the lines blur. Until all he sees is white. Until he starts to feel the shape of himself inside someone else's idea of a home and has to physically sit up again, fast, like shaking off water.

  He doesn't know how to want things like that. Not really. That domesticity, none of it was ever part of the picture. Not the kind of house he grew up in. Not the kind of life he ever expected. Wanting it now feels stupid, embarrassing. Like he's fallen for some trick.

  He tries to imagine it with someone else. Just a shape. Some generic woman. Someone he should want. He walks her through J's little fantasy. Shows her the towels, the tea rings. Tells her to use the good mug. It's hollow. God, it doesn't appeal to him at all.

  He rewinds. Tries it again. Same lines, but it's J this time. J laughing from another room. J telling him off for dripping on the floor. J with bare feet and a jumper shaving his face with a straight razor.

    It could only ever be with him, with J. He's scared of that part of him—some massive, undeniable part—that already wants to go. Already wants to hand over his boots and sit at the kitchen table like he belongs there. Like it wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world.

  He grits his teeth.

  Maybe it is the strangest thing in the world. He's always known how to make himself useful. Knew how to pull weight, take orders, stay sharp. But this—this isn't any of those things.

  He doesn't know how to be wanted like that.

  J's a man. Obviously. Broad-shouldered, big hands, probably got a beard and a sharp jawline. He tries desperately to let that bother him.

  He doesn't know the first thing about this.

  Whatever this is.

  He's never even—God. He doesn't know how any of it works. He's not—he's never been with a man. Never wanted to. Never even thought about it. Not like this. Not in the "where would your toothbrush go" kind of way. Not in the "you can sleep here" kind of way. Not in any kind of way.

  What if they wanted to live together? Like properly? Share a flat? A house? People do that. Couples. That's a thing. He'd have to tell people. They'd know. Would they care? Would it matter? Well, it's the army, he supposes. Not a bloody book club.

  They couldn't even get married. Civil unions, maybe. Still not marriage. Not properly. And adoption is legal now, sure, since 2002 if he remembers correctly, but it's not the same. It's harder. You have to prove more. Fill out more forms. Make more promises. Prove you're safe—

  And then he freezes.

  Why is he thinking like this?

  Why is he thinking about marriage and houses and fucking adoption requirements like this is something he wants, like this is something that could last, like he's not just—

  He clamps a hand over his mouth, draws his knees up to his chest to hide his face. God, no, no, no—

  He wants it.

  He doesn't even think he's scared of being with a man. He's scared of wanting this much.

  The thing is, he's survived warzones, more deployments than he can count, and seventeen years under his father's roof.

  But this? This soft, stupid, terrifying thing?

  He might not survive this.

  He swallows hard.

  He should write back. He should say something. But his hand won't stop shaking.

  He becomes suddenly aware of the fact that he's lying on his bed with his face buried in his hands like some teenager and gets embarrassed. In an attempt at dignity, he sits up, swinging his legs off the bunk like he might walk it off. His hands are shaking. He rubs them over his knees.

  Outside, the base is still moving. Men shouting. The world is still turning. He needs air. He needs to not be in love for five fucking minutes.

  He stands, pulls on his jacket, grabs a mask, slips it over his face and heads outside.

  He forgets how much he hates dry cold until he's in it. Eastern Estonia this time. Joint task, some NATO thing with an acronym he already forgot. Snow in patches. Mud in others. He pulls his jacket tighter and starts walking.

  There's not much to see. Chain-link fences. Dull stacked containers. Satellite dishes and antennae pointing at nothing. A canteen that smells like shit. His boots crunch on packed ice, then gravel.

   Christ. He'd volunteered, sort of. Didn't say no when the option came up. Seemed better than another stint in Helmand. He doesn't mind the cold that much, even if it catches the ache in his hand. It keeps him sharp. Alert.

  He pretends that's what he's thinking about. The deployment. The terrain. The drills. Anything but the letter.

  There are a dozen men out here he doesn't know by name. Most from other squadrons, some standard infantry, a few RAF technicians floating around. He tries not to look at anyone too long. Keeps his head down. People tend to steer clear of him anyway.

  And he's been steering clear of the Scots. He'd never blinked at a Scottish accent before and now ever since J reared his ugly head it's like he can't listen to one without zoning out. He's especially been avoiding Sergeant Agnew. Too Scottish. The kind of man who says "lad" too easily. Has the same vowel sounds that sit in J's letters. The same laugh lines. Every time he hears him talk, it's like a splinter catches under his skin. Same with Captain MacTavish. The way he spoke at rollcall this morning, calm, easy, practiced authority... It hurts even more since he's a captain, just like his J.

  He keeps walking. Past the gym. Past the shooting range. Tries to act like he's checking for something. Inventory maybe. Patrol routes. Anything official.

  He thinks about the next day's brief. The weather report. The rations. Whether they'll be rotated out to the forest again. He tries to hold onto the thought of camouflage and tree lines and tactical discipline like they're going to save him.

  They won't.

  Not from the toothbrushes. Not from the bed.

  He picks up the pace.

  Keeps walking.

  Like if he walks far enough, fast enough, the letter won't still be waiting in his book. But it will.

  He keeps walking. Past the edge of the containers, around the perimeter fencing. The sky's already bleeding into late afternoon, everything going flat and grey. Someone's laughing near the comms unit. Another voice cuts through, rougher, accented, then vanishes. Too far away to place.

  Then, behind him, somewhere over by the fuel tanks, he hears a whistle.

  Sharp. Brief. A tune. Something familiar.

  He stops.

  Just for a second.

  Then he shakes his head, keeps moving.

  Just someone being a wanker. Just someone whistling. Just another accent on a base full of borrowed ones.

  Why is it like everything is determined to remind him of J?

  He makes it halfway around the motorpool before realising he's walking in a circle. The kind of slow, pointless circle people walk when they're trying not to cry. Or scream. Or do something stupid like writing to a stranger to ask them if you could meet—

  He breaks off from the path without thinking, pace quickening.

  If he stops walking, he's going to think about it all again. So he doesn't.

  He ducks into the briefing tent, ostensibly to grab a thermos he left behind. There's a printout tacked to the corkboard near the entrance. Temporary Assignments: Eastern FOB. Names, ranks, billets. Just admin. He skims it.

  Then his eyes land on it.

Capt. MacTavish, J. - B Sqdn.

  His fingers freeze around the paper.

  He already knew that. Knew Captain MacTavish's name was John. He's heard people say it. Said like any other name. But there's something about seeing it written down—the rank and the initial—Capt. J.

  It's exactly how the letters were signed.

  Yours, J.

  The back of his neck prickles. He stares at it. Tries to read on. Can't.

  He's seen MacTavish before, hasn't he?

  Dark hair. Blue eyes. Scottish. B Squadron.

  He runs a hand down his face, gripping his mouth like it might stop the thought from finishing.

  It couldn't be.

  He thinks of Captain MacTavish at rollcall this morning, his sharp jawline, his calm demeanour, how steady he was—

  But it is, isn't it?

  He's still staring at the corkboard when the flap of the briefing tent rustles behind him. Someone enters. Boots scrape. Voices rise and fall. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

  Capt. J.

  Ghost feels like an idiot. He told J he wasn't ready. Wrote it down. Committed it to paper.

  But that was before. Before Estonia. Before the whistle. Before this. If there's a chance—even a chance—it's him, he has to know. He'll never forgive himself if he doesn't.

  He turns. Steps out of the tent, out into the wind. He's still masked, balaclava snug over his mouth and nose, hood drawn up, but the cold pricks the open area around his eyes anyway.

  He spots MacTavish by the fuel depot, talking to the quartermaster. The wind blows his voice away. He's laughing.

  He swallows.

  He walks over.

  His boots crunch on frostbitten gravel. MacTavish glances up, polite and quick, then returns to the conversation. Doesn't think anything of it. Of course he doesn't.

  Ghost stops a few paces away. Waits. Heart in his throat.

  The quartermaster nods and moves on. Leaves him standing there, clipboard in hand, brow furrowed. Ghost tries to remember if MacTavish was always just a tad devastatingly handsome or if he only looks like that because he's projected his J onto him.

  Ghost clears his throat.

  MacTavish looks over again. Nods. "Lieutenant?"

  His voice is warm, rough, steady. Exactly like the letters. Ghost's chest pulls tight. He could still walk away. Say it was a mistake. Blame the weather. Go back to pretending. He's damn good at that.

  What the hell is he meant to say? You wrote me a letter. We wrote fifty. You drew me asleep in your bed. I belong to you. Yours. Yours. Yours.

  "I—I think I've found you," he stammers breathlessly.

  MacTavish squints, smiling politely, looking puzzled, "Sorry, I dinnae…?"

  "I-It's me," he murmurs, "It's me, I-I—"

  MacTavish's eyes widen. "Simon?" He breathes out.

  Ghost nods, maybe a little frantically. Oh God. This is going to be awkward, isn't it? It's not going to be like the letters. Nothing could be like the letters.

  MacTavish barks out a stunned laugh, looking him up and down. "Fuck off," he says—grinning like he doesn't quite believe it. "Ye're kidding."

  Ghost laughs too, nervous. "You're real. I—And you're not 200cm. You're taller, sure, but not two—"

  MacTavish gapes. Laughs again, startled. "I ken, I just wanted to fluster ye."

  "Well. Didn't work. I wasn't flustered."

  "Mate, ye're bright red."

  "That's the cold."

  "Sure."

  They stare at each other, giddily, quietly.

  It hits both of them at the exact same moment—like stepping into the right house after a long drive in the dark:

  Oh.
  This is going to be easy.
  This is going to be so easy.

  They grin, helplessly. Stupidly. Both of them.

  "Hi," MacTavish—J—Oh God, John—says, a little breathless.

  Ghost huffs, folds his arms tight against his chest to hide the shaking. "Hi."

  MacTavish is still staring at him like he's found something dropped out of the sky. Or maybe dug up after a long, hopeful excavation. He tucks the clipboard under one arm.

  "C'mon," he says, nodding toward the row of prefab units across the way. "Let's get out of the cold. Ye'll freeze yer arse off just standing here."

  Ghost hesitates. "A bit forward, don't you think?"

  MacTavish glances sideways at him, smirking, not saying anything.

  Ghost follows. Tries not to trip over his own feet. His hands are jammed into his coat pockets so he doesn't do anything ridiculous, like reach out and touch his elbow, or tug the back of his sleeve just to be sure he's really here.

  MacTavish's quarters are in the nicer prefab row, where the captains sleep. A thin wooden door, a unit number half peeling off. It's warmer inside. There's a cot, a desk, a small electric kettle, and a battered sketchbook sitting open-faced on the table. Ghost's stomach does something awful.

  MacTavish closes the door behind them. For a second, he just looks at Ghost, still masked, still standing in the middle of the room like he's not quite sure what to do with himself. It's a good thing MacTavish knows exactly what to do with him.

  "Can I—" he begins, then stops. His voice gentles. "Could I see yer face?"

  Ghost's heart gives a violent thump.

  MacTavish catches it, maybe. "Just… for artistic accuracy," he teases, almost shy. "Just the bit I couldnae draw."

  Then Ghost reaches up. Slow. Pulls the balaclava off. Blond curls fall out. Wind-mussed. Cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

  MacTavish steps forward carefully, like Ghost might bolt, but he doesn't. He couldn't. He came looking for him, after all.

  "Hi again," MacTavish says softly. He doesn't move at first. Just takes him in. "Christ," he breathes.

  Ghost shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "What?"

  MacTavish's eyes drag over him, slow and unhurried. Like he's memorising what's real now. Filling in the lines the drawings couldn't.

  "Ye're trouble, that's what," MacTavish murmurs teasingly, half to himself. "Ye're fuckin' beautiful, aren't ye?"

  Ghost stiffens, "Don't—" he says, too quick.

  "I'm serious," MacTavish grins amusedly, "Ye've got this whole kicked-puppy-just-outta-the-rain thing goin' on, and it's obscene."

  "Jesus Christ—"

  "Proper blond too. It's criminal." His eyes narrow, mock-accusatory. "Is this how ye get away with things? That face? The curls? The big wounded eyes?"

  "Shut up, I don't show other people my face," he murmurs, sounding almost embarrassed, "Stop… stop saying things."

  MacTavish takes a small step closer, a hesitant hand on his shoulder, like he's trying to get a better look.

  "I'd've drawn ye softer," he says, voice low. "Didn't think ye'd be this sharp in person. Thought I was overdoing it with the jawline. Guess not. Ye're meaner lookin' too. Thank God."

  Ghost makes a noise that might be a laugh or a whimper. He's not sure which. He retreats half a step, bumping into the edge of the cot like an idiot.

  "Is this how it's gonna be?"

  "I spent twelve months in celibate correspondence with a literary phantom. Ye've arrived in corporeal form. Aye, this is how it's gonnae be," he jokes, his hands almost unconsciously moving to his neck, moving the fabric of his clothes out of the way just slightly to look at his trapezium, as if it's something he's been wondering about, trying to see if he got it right. It's like he doesn't quite realise he's doing it.

  Ghost stares at him in silence, a little bit horrified.

  "Ye were adorable comin' up to me like that. Ye were trembling."

  "I wasn't trembling."

  "Ye were, love."

  Ghost flounders. "Don't call me that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it works."

  MacTavish's still smiling when he steps closer, closer than he had any right to, if this were just letters, just teasing, just flirtation. But it's not. Not anymore.

  He lifts a hand, careful, like Ghost's a wild thing, like he might bolt, and curls his fingers around Ghost's wrist. In response, he goes very still.

  "This alright?" MacTavish asks quietly, thumb brushing the pulse point like it might give him the answer.

  Ghost swallows. "Yeah."

  MacTavish shifts again. Closer still. Their boots are touching. His fingers trail upward, slow as anything, until they find Ghost's jaw, cupping it gently. He leans into the touch like he's been waiting for it his whole life.

  MacTavish's hand is warm. His thumb skates along the edge of Ghost's cheekbone. "God, look at ye," he murmurs, like it hurts. "Ghost," he says, smiling like he can't quite believe it yet.

  "So you've heard of me."

  "Hard not to. Earned yerself a bit of a reputation, haven't ye?"

  He smiles sheepishly, "Maybe a little."

  "Never thought it'd be ye," he murmurs.

  "Does it bother you? That it's me, I mean."

  "Bother me?" he shakes his head slowly. "No, love. Just breaks my heart a bit. Didnae ken I was courting folklore though."

  Ghost rolls his eyes, shoving him slightly, "Piss off, you're the worst."

  MacTavish presses their foreheads together. "Aye, sure I am. And you came lookin' for me."

  Ghost's breath catches. "Yeah. I… suppose I did." He doesn't trust himself to speak further.

  Then, MacTavish: "Can I—?"

  He nods.

  MacTavish leans in, and the kiss is quiet. Steady. No fanfare. Just the meeting of mouths, slow and certain. It's not slick or desperate, it's just finally.

  Ghost exhales into it. MacTavish's hand is still cradling his jaw, anchoring him. The other finds its way to the back of Ghost's neck, thumb sweeping across warm skin, catching in the curls.

  They break apart only an inch.

  Ghost's eyes are glassy. He looks a little ruined already.

  MacTavish smiles against his mouth. "Ye okay?"

  "Shut up," Ghost whispers, as though they aren't in private. "Do it again."

  And MacTavish does. This time firmer. Hands sure now, one trailing to Ghost's waist, pressing in just enough to draw him close. Ghost gasps, fingers fisting in the front of MacTavish's jacket.

  When they part again, Ghost's breathing ragged. His lips are pink. His voice breaks on the whisper: "You're really here."

  MacTavish exhales softly, forehead still pressed to Ghost's. "Yeah," he says. "So are ye."

  Then, all at once, Ghost tugs MacTavish in again, not just for a kiss this time, but for all of him. Hands on his collar, stumbling back a step, then another, until his calves hit the edge of the cot and they both go down in a clumsy sprawl.

  Ghost lands first, half-propped on one elbow, MacTavish braced above him. His jacket's rucked up from the fall. His breathing's gone uneven again.

  MacTavish can't help the laugh he breathes out, "Ye're eager."

  "Am not," Ghost insists, "I'm efficient."

  "Mm. Tactical, was it?"

  "Shut up."

  MacTavish's thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gentle, almost reverent.

  "Still alright?" he murmurs.

  Ghost nods, too quickly. Then again, slower. "Yeah. I just… I don't know what I'm doing."

  "I do," MacTavish murmurs, "It's okay."

  He tugs the jacket open, slow, his fingertips grazing Ghost's ribs through his vest. Ghost sucks in a breath. MacTavish lifts it over his head. His hair falls loose again, sticking slightly to his temples.

  "Fuck," MacTavish says, low and reverent. "Look at ye."

  Ghost flushes down to his chest. "Stop saying things like that."

  MacTavish huffs a laugh. "Ye're just like yer letters, y'ken?" His hand slides up the flat of Ghost's stomach, dragging skin, heat pooling under his palm.

  Ghost's hips twitch forward like he's trying not to beg. MacTavish notices, of course he does, he notices the same way he notices everything about Ghost, about Simon, about R. He leans in and kisses him slow, like he has all the time in the world. And he does. He'll make time.

  The cot creaks under them as MacTavish shifts, pushing Ghost back against the thin mattress. He follows him down, one hand catching the back of Ghost's neck, the other already at his belt.

  "Can I?" he asks, lips brushing his jaw.

  Ghost nods again, more frantic this time. "Yeah. Yes. Please."

  "Christ, ye're polite," MacTavish murmurs, grinning as he undoes the buckle. "If I'd ken ye were like this—"

  "You'd have written filthier letters?"

  MacTavish hums. "Oh, I wanted tae. But ye were still pretending not tae like me."

  "I wasn't pretending," Ghost lies.

  MacTavish kisses him again before he can say anything else. By the time Ghost's trousers are halfway down his thighs, he's breathless, flushed, already wrecked.

  "Ye're trembling," MacTavish says again, voice low, amused.

  Ghost looks down at his hands pointedly. "You're not exactly calm either."

  MacTavish slides down his body, pressing kisses to skin as he goes, ribs, hip, inside of his thigh. Ghost forgets whatever retort he had prepared when a whimper comes out instead.

  He keeps it slow. Torturously so. Hands on Ghost's thighs, mouth coaxing gasps from him, soft, filthy praise pressed between bites and kisses. When he finally wraps a hand around him, Ghost bucks up hard, cursing.

  "Oh my God," he pants, "Don't— don't look at me like that."

  "Like what?" MacTavish grins, breath warm against him.

  "Like you… like you already knew how this would feel."

  "I hoped," he says, kissing his stomach.

  Ghost comes apart in his hands not long after, breath ragged, voice caught in his throat, legs trembling. His hand curls around MacTavish's shoulder like it's the only thing tethering him to earth. MacTavish is whispering things like "Christ, just listen to ye…" in a way that makes Ghost want to never lift his head from the crook of his neck again.

  MacTavish follows him up, kisses him slow again, steadies him. He's hard too, straining against his own trousers, but he's in no rush.

  Ghost blinks up at him, dazed. "What about you…?"

  MacTavish smiles affectionately. "Ye gonna help?"

  He nods, then smiles faintly. "Still owe you for the Hobnobs."

  "Ye're so romantic," MacTavish mutters, but he's laughing, "Ye really ken how to make a bloke feel special."

  They trade places. This time Ghost's hands are shaking for a different reason. He doesn't know what in God's name he's doing, and occasionally MacTavish reaches out to guide him, and if that doesn't do him in, then Christ—He touches like he means it, like he's allowed to. MacTavish is louder than him, less shy. He lets out soft groans, low curses, head tipped back. When he comes, it's with Simon's name in his mouth.

  They lie there, quiet but for their breathing, Ghost looking down at his… his J, his John, who looks up at him like he's… he doesn't know what. One of MacTavish's hands rests against Ghost's sternum, fingers splayed like he's trying to memorise the shape of him.

  Everything's warm and blurry at the edges. He should be panicking. He's been waiting for it, some awful lurch of shame in his gut. Some voice in his head reminding him what this means. What it makes him.

  But there's nothing.

  Just MacTavish. Just John. Just J. Close and quiet. And that look on his face, soft and affectionate, like Ghost is exactly what he wanted, exactly what he was hoping for.

  MacTavish doesn't look away. "Y'alright?"

  Ghost exhales. "Yeah." A pause. "Yeah, I'm alright. Just…"

  He swallows. The words catch in his throat.

  "I was expecting it to feel wrong after. Like I'd done something I couldn't take back. But it doesn't. It just…" He shifts a little, suddenly self-conscious. "It just feels like you meant all of it. The letter, I mean."

  MacTavish's gaze softens further. "I did," he says, without hesitation. "All of it."

  Ghost lets out a shaky breath. "The tea rings. The boots by the door. The bloody jumper."

  A smile twitches at the corner of MacTavish's mouth. "Even the oat biscuits."

  "Jesus Christ," Ghost mutters, trying to cover the flush rising in his cheeks. But he's still smiling.

  There's a pause.

  "Could it really be like that?" Ghost murmurs quietly.

  MacTavish doesn't answer right away. He just reaches out, brushes a curl from Ghost's forehead. His hand lingers. Thumb stroking gently along his temple.

  "It already is," he murmurs. "Ye just haven't moved yer boots in yet."

  Ghost laughs. Choked and a little disbelieving. He looks at him—really looks—and for a moment it's all too much. He pulls MacTavish in, kisses him again, just to feel him smile against his mouth.

  MacTavish does exactly that, and when they pull away just slightly, he reaches toward the floor, grabbing the nearest fabric. Ghost's shirt.

  "Touch that and die," Ghost mutters. "That shirt's all I brought. Use your own. You've got a whole bloody wardrobe."

  "Alright, alright," MacTavish laughs, raising his hands in surrender before dragging one of his own shirts off the floor. "Ye're very particular post-orgasm. I'll make a note."

  "Don't say things like that."

  With exaggerated patience, MacTavish wipes them off with theatrical martyrdom. "Happy now, lieutenant?"

  "You better…  You better throw that thing straight into the wash. On a high heat setting. With scented detergent."

  "Would ye like me to iron it after? Maybe stitch a little monogram?"

  "Stop talking."

  MacTavish tosses the shirt aside and lies back with a satisfied grunt. He reaches out without thinking, curling a hand around the back of Ghost's neck. "C'mere."

  Ghost hesitates. Just for a second. Then he lets himself be pulled down, settling beside him, cheek resting awkwardly against MacTavish's bare shoulder. He lets out a breath, leans into it. His fingers toy idly with the hem of MacTavish's blanket. He tugs it gently over Ghost's shoulders without being asked.

  For a while, neither of them says anything. Just the soft shuffle of fabric. Shared breathing. The hush of wind pressing in against the walls. Ghost's hand fumbles under the blanket until it finds MacTavish's, intertwining them shyly.

  "Is this alright?" MacTavish asks, voice quieter now.

  Ghost nods. Then, after a moment: "Stop asking that. It's alright. It's always gonna be alright."

  MacTavish kisses his temple. "Good."

  His chest rises and falls beneath Ghost's cheek. His fingers trace idle patterns along Ghost's spine, and he doesn't move. Doesn't want to.

   MacTavish shifts a little, just enough to murmur into his hair, pressing a gentle hand on the side of his head, as if pushing him closer to his chest, "There. Told ye ye'd fit."

  Ghost grunts. "Shut up."

  He laughs. "Ye gonna write me back?" MacTavish whispers.

  Ghost hums. "Maybe. If you're lucky."

  He smiles. "I'm the luckiest bastard alive."

  He folds it once, sharp and clean. Stares at the page for a moment longer. Then rises from the cot, slips on his coat, and steps out into the cold.

  The camp's quiet in the early morning grey, the ground still slick with frost.

  He walks across it like he knows exactly where he's going.

  Knocks once on the door to the captain's quarters. When it opens, he doesn't say anything. Just hands the letter over.

  MacTavish takes it. Doesn't read it right away. Just watches him with that look, like the sky cracked open and something holy fell out.

  Ghost, cheeks pink, shrugs. "I write better than I talk."

  MacTavish's voice is low. "Ye talk alright."

  Then he steps aside. Leaves the door open.

  Ghost steps in.

  And the door closes gently behind them.