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The rain was falling so hard that the grass was beginning to separate from the wet mud, kicked up by twenty-five pairs of dirty boots as they powered through the obstacle course.
It was a highly specialised course, and, MacTavish knew intimately, intensely difficult. The entire thing was a kilometre of every obstacle they could think to put together, all under a harsh time limit— a sprint through sodden mud took them to a flat crawl under barbed wire, after which they were independently expected to climb a series of walls. A tire run brought them to a greased horizontal ladder, suspended over pooling, dirty water, before they had to crawl through a tunnel, balance over a beam, and climb across a dirty, tangled rope net to get to the finish line— the time limit was harsh, the weather was worse, and while MacTavish had never shied away from actively partaking in physical training, he was privately rather pleased to be watching over the entire thing with a Captain Lopez of the American Delta Force, who was standing under the tent with him, wrapped in a parka and with a thin dusting of black facial hair.
“Moore’s falling apart,” he commented wryly, brown eyes on one of his men as he slowed dangerously in the tire run. It was his third or fourth time around the course, but he hadn’t been fast to start— MacTavish gave a hum of acknowledgement, enough to be polite.
“Who’s number four— Lieutenant Taylor?” He asked, finally looking away from the end of the tunnel and tipping his head towards one of Lopez’s soldiers, who was closing in on the finish line like a target. He landed with a victorious laugh, arms raised— “he’s doing okay, too.”
“Coach,” Lopez nodded, apparently unable to help the quiet note of pride. “He’s one of mine. Although— what’s her name, Volkova? She’s closing in on him in terms of averages.”
“Robot?” He asked, and dragged his eyes away to find her practically leaping across the net to make time— she landed hard, scrubbing mud angrily out of her face as she asked the umpire for her time, and even the distance didn’t hide her groan of annoyance. “She’s makin’ time, but she’s lagging on the walls.”
“You hold your soldiers to high standards, MacTavish,” Lopez remarked, with a thin smile; he gave a polite huff of amusement before returning his gaze to the field, raking over it to find who he was really after.
After over a year of knowing him, working with him, and living with him, he probably should have lost the ability to be surprised by him. But if there was anyone who could stun him, knock him flat on his feet no matter how long it had been, it was Ghost.
He led both the 141 and Lopez’s squad, and only seemed faster with each turn of the course, near leisurely in the way he outran all of them. He’d lost sight of him around the tunnels, and only caught sight of him when he, like Robot, paused at the starting line to ask for his time; he made a face as he heard it, even though MacTavish was confident that it was at least half a minute shorter than the next one, before rolling his eyes and getting back to the start line. He said something to Roach, motioning to the ladder before miming something— Roach, who, despite his best efforts, hadn’t managed to get any faster on his last three runs, furrowed his eyebrows as he nodded, asking something to confirm. Ghost pointed to the ladder again, and gestured something with his hands; he nodded to Roach, who nodded back, before turning to the umpire, taking a few steps back to stretch. The umpire said something, and he was off— even from the distance, the little smile around Ghost’s eyes was unmistakable.
“Sanderson’s not bad either,” Lopez commented, “he’s not the fastest, but he’s got good endurance.”
MacTavish nodded his agreement, but didn’t say anything else— his eyes, after all, weren’t on Roach.
The compression shirt Ghost was wearing clung like a second skin, dark black fabric catching every curve and contour. He had mud up to his knees, and tilted his head right and left as he watched Roach, so that a sliver of pale skin became visible on either side of his neck; he interlocked his fingers, and stretched behind him, before reaching above his head to stretch his shoulders out. The movement made the hem of his shirt lift out of his belt, revealing a sliver of moon-pale skin, the edge of a scar visible with it. Ghost tilted his head left, and in the tent, MacTavish did too. He followed his gaze to Roach, who had sped through the sprint and the flat crawl, neck and neck with the soldier by his side, and was quickly making his way through the tire run; Ghost lingered at the start line to watch as Roach met each tire with precision, before pausing for a breath, and starting the horizontal ladder.
Whatever Ghost had told him to do differently had worked. He knew Ghost was smiling at the sight, because he lifted his hand over the mask to hide it as Roach tore through the horizontal ladder, far faster than he’d done on his previous runs and faster than the soldier besides him, the gap widening with incredible speed— Roach didn’t miss a beat as he landed hard, disappearing in the tunnel—
“He’s cracked it,” Lopez remarked, not even bothering to hide how impressed he sounded— “what’s his speciality? Infiltration?”
“Infiltration, but he’s been angling after a CQC qual with Riley.”
“Riley?” Lopez asked, glancing down at his roster— “I’ve not got a—”
Glancing back at the start line, MacTavish tilted his head carelessly at Ghost, who was talking to the umpire again.
“Lieutenant Riley,” he provided, as the umpire nodded, taking out his stopwatch again. Lopez’s eyebrows were lifted, so MacTavish huffed softly, turning his attention back to the field—
“He goes by Ghost.”
From the distance, and through the sheets of rain, the movement of the umpire pressing the stopwatch was minuscule— but without so much as a split second of delay, Ghost was off like a physical force.
Every part of him was built for violence like a weapon. Every sharp edge and softened curve, every angle and contour the compression shirt clung to, every inch of coiled muscle and barely leashed muscle memory— it was near hypnotic, every little flex and movement on display as he sprinted ahead of everyone else on the course, eyes forward and sniper-focused. He slid to stop at the end, didn’t lose momentum for a second as he began the crawl under the barbed wire, utterly unafraid—
“What’s his speciality?”
“On paper, CQC and sniper training.”
“And in practice?” Lopez asked, as Ghost reached the end of the flat crawl with incredible speed, getting to the first wall— the rope was red, and he wrapped it around his arm as he hauled himself up, shoulders flexing with the force of it—
“There’s nothing he’s not good at,” MacTavish told him, eyes not leaving the sight of him. “He’s the most adaptable soldier I’ve got. He does our cyber, he’s our best close-combat specialist, he does infiltration and surveillance— top marks in pistol marksmanship and a sharpshooter to boot.”
Ghost hid the muscles under thick hoodies and thicker jackets— unlike some of the people in their squad, he was shockingly restrained when it came to taking pride in the calibre at which they did what they did. Without the layers, he almost seemed broader, muscles of his back flexing as he climbed the highest wall with resounding strength, uncaring of the slick rain; utterly unafraid of the height, he threw himself over and caught himself on the ladder on the way down— his eyes snapped to the next obstacle, low and dark, like they were fixed on a target, and he could see the rise and fall of his chest as he went straight for the greased ladder, his shoulders flexing as he caught it. He did it faster than Roach, more used to the technique and the pitfalls, pulling ahead of people who had started before him—
“Not bad,” Lopez commented, with the tone that suggested that was the highest praise he’d let himself give in front of him. He turned a page of the clipboard he was holding to check something, and then looked back at him, the scent of petrichor thick—
“Even before this run, his average was ten seconds faster than the next best.”
“Course,” MacTavish nodded, crossing his arms to hide the burning sort of feeling that was tearing up his chest— he knew Ghost didn’t like tight spaces, but he disappeared into the tunnel without a second of hesitation, and it was the only time he felt as if he could drag his eyes away from the display, suddenly aware of how warm his skin felt, even in the rain—
“I understand you command the 141 on the ground, but the brass is based in the States?”
“That’s right. We move from base to base, but we’re mainly stationed in the UK.”
“Who do I talk to about a transfer, then?” Lopez replied, entirely straightforward— MacTavish turned to him, lifting an eyebrow.
“That’d be me. Who’re you after?”
“Martinez isn’t bad,” Lopez replied evenly— “underwater specialists’d be wasted on our squad, we work inland, but Adams and Sanderson’d be good fits for a stint with us— and despite what I’ve heard about him being difficult to work with,” he added, and it was plainly obvious what he was about to say, even before he said it, “our squad might benefit from working with someone as specialised as Ghost.”
“Yeah?”
Ghost appeared out of the tunnel, mud coating his legs, elbows, chest. It heaved as he took several deep breaths, blinking rainwater out of his eyes; the movement had pulled the hem of his mask out of his collar, and when he leaned forward, it revealed the soft, milk-pale skin of the nape of his neck, a thin silver chain visible across it. The rainwater made his eyelashes dark, but the next moment, he glanced over at the tent like he could see him— and MacTavish could have sworn that for a split second before he set off over the balance beam, Ghost met his eyes, and smiled.
“Maybe a four week transfer period,” Lopez suggested at his side, miles away from where he was watching the stretch of Ghost’s muscles as he ran past the beam, grabbing the rope net with two hands and climbing across it with remarkable speed— “and if he’s well suited into more of a command position, we’ll see where we go from there?”
“It might be counterproductive to keep moving him from place to place,” MacTavish replied thinly, sparing him a half glance. “Besides, he works better on the field, more than a desk.”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to keep him busy,” Lopez smiled good-naturedly, “and it might be good for him to— expand into new opportunities, so to speak.”
“Trust me,” MacTavish barely kept his tone even, suddenly very defensive, “he’s very happy where he is.”
“I don’t mean to offend you, MacTavish,” he replied, the professional smile not disappearing for a moment as he spoke, “but it’d be a wasted opportunity not to push him for everything he could do. Our squad is more experimental, we’re not limited to counterterrorism, and rather than a liaison officer, we could offer him a permanent position in command—”
The laugh that bubbled from nowhere surprised Lopez, too. It was nearly difficult to drag his eyes away from the sight that was Ghost, but when he did, he found the smile on his face was sharp like a snarl—
“Don’t even joke about that, captain.”
Ghost reached the finish line at a sprint, kicking up dirt as he slid to a stop. Roach, who’d only just arrived there himself, practically did a double-take at the sight of him; the rain was so thick that it stuck his shirt to his chest as it rose and fell, clung to his skin, folded to stick to the near-intoxicating curve of his waist—
“Alright,” Lopez huffed finally, good-natured despite himself, “it was only a suggestion. Figured it was too good to be true.”
“I don’t like sharing,” MacTavish replied, arms tightening across his chest. The umpire himself seemed surprised at the time, undoubtedly faster than Ghost’s previous runs and far faster than anyone else— Ghost laughed, and then glanced up at the tent, as if to check to see if he was watching, eyes dark and eyelashes wet.
“No one’d blame you,” Lopez shrugged, as Ghost looked up at them both; MacTavish could practically imagine the way that under the mask, he’d chew on the edge of his lower lip, eyes reflecting the stormy sky to shine a steel blue.
“And— for what it’s worth, you’ve trained him well. He stands out.”
“I know,” MacTavish replied, looking back to where Ghost was saying something to Roach. He gave a surreptitious look around to everyone in earshot, apparently deciding to sign something that made Roach splutter, before laughing himself, eyes crinkling into half moons— “couldn’t blame you for asking.”
“Although, of course,” Lopez nodded, “if the answer changes—”
“It won’t,” MacTavish bit out behind sharp teeth, before he could stop himself. Lopez blinked, before that even smile was replaced on his face—
“I thought as much,” he replied, and MacTavish gave Ghost one final once-over, at the flush from exercise that stained the back of his neck, and the sharp angle of his jaw, even through the mask. “Here, we can finish the drill here.”
Finding Ghost after was easy. The rain pounded on the base, amplifying the sound, and everyone else had already disappeared from the locker room to the communal showers, washing the grime of the mission off. The locker room had pale grey tiles, a row of hooks and frosted windows to let in paler light; the floor was scuffed with muddy bootsteps, and the hooks reflected the yellow overheads. It was shaped like an L, and the door was entirely silent as it opened, so that he could see Ghost before Ghost saw him. The mud had dried and caked to his boots, and in the light, he could see where the shirt stretched across his chest, the hem lifting out of his belt.
“Surprised you’re not already in the showers,” MacTavish remarked as he came in, voice echoing about. Ghost, who had been sitting on a bench to adjust one muddy boot, glanced up at the sight of him, eyes narrowing around a smile—
“Yeah, with them lot?” Ghost asked with a scoff, standing up— water collected on the sleeves of his shirt, dripping softly. “I’ll go find somewhere with less people. Think there’s an empty officer’s bathroom on the second floor.”
“You don’t think Lopez’ll mind you using his good soap?”
“Worried he’ll catch me?” Ghost laughed, lifting his eyebrows cheekily as he walked past—
“Wait,” MacTavish stopped him with a hand to his chest. Ghost blinked, paused, and took a little step back when MacTavish pushed gently into his chest, a clump of mud falling to the floor—
“What’s the matter?”
“What were you showing off out there for?”
“Showing off?” Ghost echoed, crossing his arms as MacTavish’s hand dropped. The movement lifted the hem of his shirt, still untucked, out of his belt; mirroring him, MacTavish crossed his arms to face him—
“Yeah,” he nodded, voice low. “Showing off.”
“Just because I’m better than those idiots doesn’t mean I’m showing off,” Ghost argued, tipping his chin up to face him— his skin was still wet from rain and sweat, heat radiating off him, “what did you want me to do, tie my laces together and give everyone else a headstart?”
“You didn’t need to embarrass everyone else,” MacTavish insisted, squaring his shoulders. “And you didn’t need to try so hard to impress Lopez.”
The incredulity on his face was nearly palpable; Ghost scoffed, eyes narrowing as the humour in his voice turned sharp, cloying—
“You think I was trying to impress Lopez?” Ghost asked, laughing up at him— he tilted his head as if to regard him, eyes crinkled into half moons and smile cutting— “what— what, are you jealous?”
If he didn’t love it so much, he probably would have hated how perceptive he was. He opened his mouth to scoff, closed it without an answer, shook his head when Ghost’s smile only widened, incredulous—
“Really?” He asked, eyes practically alight—
“You weren’t the only one who was good out there,” MacTavish brushed him off, looking away— Ghost tilted his head to try and catch his eye, and when he didn’t meet it, looked away too, feigning indifference— “Lopez’s man, Coach, he wasn’t bad either.”
“Who— Taylor?” Ghost replied, taking another step back to frown up at him properly, more mud falling on the floor— “Taylor never got above fourth place on his best run. Blackjack and Roach both outdid him, I practically completed it in half his time—”
“He’s got potential,” MacTavish shrugged, half serious and half to watch the way Ghost’s eyebrows lifted, disbelieving. “He was impressive out there, he’s got good instincts, he was consistent—”
“Roach was impressive— I was impressive,” Ghost corrected, arms tightening across his chest. His shoulders flexed with the movement, the damp fabric clinging to the curves of his muscles— “Taylor was mediocre at best, and we both know it.”
“You were okay,” MacTavish shot back, watching the way Ghost’s expression shifted incredulously, “but he’s a good sniper, he could be trained into a good asset, and he gets along well with his team— he’d be a good fit for a transfer.”
“You’ve got a better sniper already,” Ghost replied, eyes narrowed. The rain was still audible outside, and he could see the way Ghost’s muscles coiled defensively, near mesmerising—
“Still.”
“I didn’t think you were paying so much attention to him,” Ghost scowled, arms tightening as he looked away. Unable to help it, MacTavish’s lips twitched, tilting his head as he looked down at him—
“What’s the matter, lieutenant,” MacTavish couldn’t help the edge of the smirk at how deeply he was frowning— “are you jealous?”
Ghost’s expression flickered, and the next moment, he bit down angrily on the inside of his cheek, refusing to meet his eye.
A moment of quiet passed, interspersed by the rain. Ghost still hadn’t corrected where his mask had lifted, or where the hem of his shirt had come untucked, a tiny corner of his hip visible, skin pale against the black fabric. He thought of everyone else on the field who must have seen it, and felt a wave of irrational anger— not at Ghost, but at the rest of them for daring to look—
“No,” Ghost seemed to decide, after several moments. He glanced up at him, and his eyes narrowed around a smile— “no, I’m not jealous.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Ghost agreed, looking up at him— MacTavish took another step forward, so he took another step back, teasing him just out of reach— “if you want to transfer Taylor in, it might be a good idea. You’ll be short a man anyway.”
“That right?”
“Lopez offered me a position on his squad,” Ghost nodded easily, smile lilting in his voice. “One in, one out. Seems easy enough.”
MacTavish huffed a laugh, unamused.
“Don’t joke about that, Riley.”
“Who said I was joking?” Ghost blinked at him innocently, eyelashes still clumped together from the rain— “it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Lopez seemed happy enough, and you obviously can’t get enough of Taylor—”
“When did Lopez talk to you?” MacTavish cut across him, voice lowering as he approached. The backs of Ghost’s knees hit the bench he had been sitting on, more mud falling, but he stood tall, tipping his head back to hold eye contact—
“When we were coming off the field. Took me to one side,” Ghost replied, voice easy if not for where he was raking over his expression for his reaction, eyes alight. “I dunno, sir, it sounds like a pretty good deal.”
“Ghost.”
“He said he’d let me make the choice,” Ghost continued, looking up at him through thick, blond lashes— “said he’d put the paperwork for a transfer in tonight if I asked.”
“That’s not up to Lopez,” MacTavish bit out, somehow more frustrated when Ghost seemed blissfully at ease with that, “it’s not his call to make—”
“Seemed like he’d already made it to me,” Ghost replied, tangling a gloved finger in the chain of his tags. He could practically see them move against his skin through the shirt with the movement, fabric all but glued to his chest— “lot of benefits too, apparently. My own office, my own command—”
“I can give you all of that—” MacTavish cut across him, a surge of defensive anger thrashing in his chest—
“—a permanent position,” Ghost continued, tilting his head like he was really considering it, before glancing back to him, a smile on his lips as he let go of the chain, the silver disks shifting under the shirt— “said I could have all sorts of resources at my disposal. Anything I asked him for.”
“So you were?” MacTavish replied, anger clouding his better judgement; he bore into his space, close enough that he could see his own expression in Ghost’s eyes, low and dark— “you were trying to impress him?”
“No,” Ghost argued immediately, eyebrows knitting. “I’m just saying. He seemed eager about it— and it’s a good idea,” he added, looking up at him, “you can transfer your man in, he can have me, it’s—”
“I don’t give a fuck about— whatever his name was,” MacTavish waved the name off, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off Ghost. “The fuck were you trying to impress Lopez, for?”
“Jesus,” Ghost huffed a laugh, incredulous, “how many times do I have to say it, sir? I wasn’t trying to impress him!”
“Oh, aye,” MacTavish agreed sarcastically, voice falling low with how close they were. “You had no reason to be doing all that out there.”
“All what?” Ghost demanded, tipping his head defiantly, so they were impossibly close—
“You didn’t need to show everyone up out there,” he replied, and his voice had fallen low like a snarl— “you didn’t need to put Lopez’s men in their place like that, you didn’t need to be givin’ hints out to soldiers and then going faster than them anyway— and if this was any tighter—”
He was only gentle when he took the fabric between his thumb and his forefinger, pulling it back— but Ghost was so precariously close to him that as he let it go with a snap against his chest, he fell back, landing hard to sit on the benches, eyes wide as he looked up at him—
“—if this was any tighter, Lopez would’ve been able to read my fuckin’ name off of those tags.”
“Yeah,” Ghost laughed, breathless and near flustered, even despite the teasing— “yeah, you’d’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?”
It was Ghost’s tone, the daringness of it, that made MacTavish seem to realise how dangerously close to the sun he was flying.
With the way Ghost was sitting, MacTavish was standing between his legs to bear into his space. The rainwater had mixed with sweat, and had only warmed with the heat Ghost radiated, so that he could smell the scent of him, near incendiary in the space of the locker room— it was all he could do to drag his attention away from the shine in his eyes, practically goading him on, from the shallow curve of his waist, fabric still clinging to it, from the healthy layer of fat that covered his hip, still visible where he hadn’t fixed the shirt, soft enough that he could just dig his fingers in—
“You belong—” MacTavish began, several moments too late and barely managing to hold onto the scrap of professionalism as he curled his hands into fists— “you belong with the 141, Ghost.” In response, Ghost tilted his head, still unhappy with that as he looked up at him—
“Not officially, I don’t.”
“You belong with me, then,” MacTavish snapped, unable to help the way he pressed closer. Ghost’s back was practically to the wall, and he only then realised that it couldn’t have been exertion that Ghost’s chest was heaving with, several minutes since he’d left the field—
“You seemed desperate to have me replaced with Taylor just a minute ago,” Ghost reminded him softly, pupils dark as he looked up at him, “sir.”
The rain was still drumming against the windows and the walls, echoing around. It was just them, just their breaths against the tile, just their heat warming up the place—
“Taylor’s not even worth a tenth of what you are,” he frowned, because really, it should have been obvious. And then, more earnest— “you know I’d never replace you.”
The lights were a pale sort of yellow, reflecting off the tiles and the hooks. Ghost’s mask was slightly damp from the rain still, his skin wet with condensation and sweat.
“Good,” Ghost smiled again, tilting his head with it. “I wasn’t going anywhere, anyway.”
“You’re tellin’ me you weren’t tryin’ to impress Lopez into giving you a job?”
“Jesus, sir,” he frowned, glaring up at him— “no.”
“Then what?”
To his surprise, Ghost’s mouth opened and closed in lieu of a response. The mask hid his cheeks, but around his eyes, there was the barest dusting of pink— he blinked up at MacTavish, peering at him through his eyelashes like he was checking for his reaction, and—
“I wanted to make you look good in front of everyone.”
His voice stayed quiet, nearly intimate. The sincerity of it made MacTavish’s heart do something loud and desperate in his chest, and he knew that he should have stepped back, got out of his space, anything to try and resurrect some of the professional boundaries they had all but raced past—
“You did,” he told him, unable to help himself from the way Ghost’s eyes shone at that— “you always do.”
It took a surprising amount of self-control on his best day not to simply shower Ghost with praise, more so when he looked up at him with that expression, eyes open and earnest like he was the centre of his universe. Ghost broke away first, like he was aware of the face he was making and suddenly shy about it, rearranging his features into something more suitable—
“I didn’t think you’d get so angry about Lopez,” Ghost told him, voice quiet over the rain. “Was only joking about agreeing to a transfer. I told him not to waste his time.”
“Good,” MacTavish replied, and a little unable to help himself, reached by his neck to pull the discs free of his collar, the metal skin-warm in his hands. He ran his thumb over the engraved letters as he read them, and purposely ignored both the way Ghost swallowed as he looked up at him, reverential in a way he knew would make him do something irreversible, and the little catch of breath when he let them drop to swing against his chest—
“You know you’re not his to have.”
He half expected Ghost to come up with a snarky response to that— something clever, or something that made it seem like Ghost knew exactly what he was doing to him when he was pushing his buttons, daring him to take that final step—
“I’m not?” He asked, but instead of teasing, his voice sounded nearly— hopeful. He met his eye with raised eyebrows, and Ghost bristled immediately at his expression, scowling—
“I knew that,” Ghost replied, frowning as he looked away; he crossed his arms, leaning further against the wall when MacTavish huffed a laugh. The petulance made his teeth hurt, and he could hardly be blamed for the way he knocked his knuckles gently into his jaw, enough to make him look up—
“You made us all look good,” MacTavish told him, and he let his hands trail down to tuck his tags and the hem of his mask back into his collar, hiding the pale skin of his throat away; he sat down on a knee across him, and didn’t miss the way the muscles of Ghost’s core went tight when his hands brushed around his waist to tuck his shirt back into his trousers, fingers grazing against the soft skin of his hips. “Don’t let Lopez talk to you like that again.”
“Alright,” Ghost laughed softly, only relaxing when he let go, but when he met his eye and realised he was serious, sobered with a nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good lad.”
Ghost had taken tight fists of the bench, no doubt blanching his knuckles under the gloves, and sat stock still as he rummaged about his pockets like he was waiting for orders; the rain echoed about, and he could hear the way Ghost’s breath caught in the mask, still wet from the rain. The next moment, MacTavish shucked off his jacket and wrapped it around Ghost’s shoulders—
“It’s really not that cold, sir,” Ghost laughed softly, eyes soft—
“I know,” he replied, zipping up the jacket to his chin, hiding him away in the thick fabric where no one else would see him. He rummaged about in his pockets as Ghost tucked his arms in, before he procured a little silver key from his pocket, holding it in front of him—
“Here,” MacTavish held it out as Ghost took it, blinking down at him, “don’t use the officer’s bathroom, use mine. No one’ll notice.”
The little huff of laughter caught in the mask; he could see the way Ghost grinned down at them, clasped safely in his hands, before meeting his eye—
“Whatever you want, Johnny.”
He seemed smaller wrapped up in the fabric, zipped up to his chin; his eyes sparkled with something like fondness as they followed him when he stood, soft and private, reserved for him. It made him feel powerful in a way he didn’t know what to do with, even if it was Ghost who had him wrapped around his little finger—
“Simon?” He began, pausing and turning as he walked towards the door—
“Hm?”
“You made ‘em look like amateurs out there today,” he told him, voice low with pride. “Running over one another tryin’ to keep up.”
“I didn’t notice,” Ghost replied primly, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice. And he really was precious, all the confidence and the cocksure attitude and the cracks in his bravado where something more earnest peeked through—
“You just don’t have a clue what you do to people, do you?”
Ghost paused for a moment, blinking at him. All the heat was still radiating off him, and he must have been warm in the jacket; MacTavish seemed to realise that once he was done, the jacket would probably smell like him, like gunpowder and tangerine scented soap, unmistakably Ghost.
“You did good. Get some rest,” he told him, as he turned to the door; he turned the corner, so that he could still see Ghost, even where he couldn’t see him— the door was silent as it opened, but he couldn’t help the way he paused for a moment with his hand on the handle, turning to look at him one final time.
Ghost must have thought he had left. It became obvious a second later, when he uncrossed his arms and put his face in his hands; MacTavish nearly said something, but the next moment, he realised the sound Ghost was making was very quiet laughter, shoulders shaking with it. When he lifted his hands, he dragged his mask down to reveal burning pink cheeks he seemed to have managed to hide through the entire conversation— he wasn’t looking at anything as he took two fists of the collar of his jacket to hide his mouth and nose in it, as if to stifle the laugh, as if the mask wasn’t enough. He was smiling wide enough to make his eyes crinkle into half moons, and practically folded in half with a shaking, giddy sigh—
“Fucking hell…”
He looked like he was practically melting, bright pink and bursting with the weight of it; he’d pulled his mask far enough down so that a little lock of blond hair had become visible under his forehead, and he laughed again to himself, self-conscious, as he tucked it away—
It was very obviously a private moment. Ghost still hadn’t noticed him, having covered his face with two hands even over the mask, so he slipped out silently, and ignored how fast his heart was going—
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.
The entire conversation had sounded like it had come out of one of his more private dreams. The door closed behind him, and it was like with that, the spell broke— he did a double-take at the door as he ran a hand over his mohawk and over his beard, suddenly aware of how hot his face was—
What the hell had that been? Did Ghost know? There was no way Ghost had been outright flirting with him, he’d been trying to get under his skin, he couldn’t have been flirting— but had he seen how red his ears had gone? Did he know exactly what buttons he was pushing? Was that what he thought it was?
Did he know?
“Captain MacTavish, sir!”
He started, and wheeled around so fast that the poor private they had sent to find him, some spotty-faced greenstick, all but jumped at the sight of him.
“What is it, private?” He demanded, a little impatiently.
“Uh— uh, Major Alport sent me to come find you, sir— uhm, something about pending mission plans in your office, sir—”
“Alright— alright, I’ve got it,” MacTavish replied, scrubbing a hand over his face and then over his beard, “you’re dismissed, private.”
The private left like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and it left him alone in the hallway, still cold from the rain and alone.
Right. Right, he was at work, he had a job to do. He sighed, pressing his fingertips into his eyelids, and tried to get his racing heartbeat under control— he gave a final glance at the door to the locker room, scrubbed at his hair, and took a fist of his own tags, the ones with Ghost’s name on them, silvery cold in his hands.
“Fuckin’ hell…”
With that, and no other thoughts about the look in Ghost’s eyes as he’d taunted him, or the bright red flush on his cheeks, or the way he could still see the impression of his tags on his chest under that godforsaken shirt, burned into his mind’s eye, he forced himself out of the corridor and towards his office, one foot after another, listening to the rain as he went.