Archive of Our Own

The phone rang on a Wednesday, just past sunset.

Unlike all internal calls, rather than lighting up the screen of MacTavish’s handheld, it was his phone that buzzed on his desk, under six appraisals he had to sign off on and two logistical reports— it was dark enough that the only light in his office was his desk lamp, bright yellow in the darkness, and he had to rummage about to procure the brick phone, the screen illuminated green with an unknown number.

The sky was the deep purple of the early night, stars scattered across it; he scowled as he picked up the phone, and kneaded at the little ache above his eyebrows as he glared at it. MacTavish’s number was encrypted to the point that no one who hadn’t been explicitly given it would be able to access it, which meant the call wasn’t so much a security threat as mildly annoying— with a final little glance at the clock in his office, and an exasperated sigh, he put down the pen he’d been holding for the last half hour and hit the receive button.

“MacTavish.”

“Have you seen my lighter?” 

MacTavish blinked, did a double take at his phone, frowned deeper, and—

“Ghost?” 

“Who d’you think?” Ghost replied, exasperated, and there was the sound of him rummaging about down the phone— “have you seen my lighter or not?” 

“Aren’t you deployed?” He replied instead, frowning— “aren’t you— aren’t you s’posed to be on a mission?”

“I’m on a base,” Ghost replied testily, voice tinny through the phone, “I’m not on a mission until tomorrow, and it’s black with skulls on it. I think I left it in your hoodie.” 

“I—” MacTavish began, exasperated, before standing up and walking over to the hook on the back of his door. A grey hoodie hung there, and he patted its pockets, before putting his phone in his other hand— “you know you’re not s’posed to be calling me when you’re deployed?”

“I do know that— I also know it’s a Wednesday night, so you’re alone in your office doing paperwork, and unless you sell me out to the Konni no one’s going to know. Come on,” Ghost grumbled impatiently, and he could practically imagine the scowl, “I want to know if I’ve left it there before I waste my money on a new one. Everything here’s expensive as all fuck.” 

“Alright,” MacTavish replied, exasperated as he patted over it, “alright. It’s not here. Unless you left it in my jacket.” 

“No,” Ghost sighed, “I didn’t leave it there. Means it got lost somewhere in transport.” 

“You know this wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t steal my clothes?” MacTavish pointed out, walking back to his desk and taking a seat—

“You give me them,” Ghost argued, frowning through the phone, “and it’s faster than me doing my laundry—”

“It’s faster because I have to do twice as much laundry!” 

“I’m not seeing how that’s my problem, sir.”

“Jesus,” MacTavish rolled his eyes, scrubbing at the spot between his eyebrows. It was late at night, and the only sound was the hum of his laptop; over the phone, he could hear static that suggested it was raining on the other end of the phone.

“Where are you that a lighter’s so expensive, anyway?” 

“Careful, captain,” Ghost replied, voice lilting, “that’s classified information.”

“Aye, so you can call me while you’re deployed there and you’re not worried about being traced, but now I’ve asked you, you can’t tell me?” MacTavish asked, lifting an unimpressed brow.

“The phone’s untraceable,” he shrugged in response, and there was a sound as if he was switching which hand he held the phone with. “Shepherd’s the only other one who contacts me on here— can’t have any evidence of him talking to me, so it’s all encrypted. I get a new one every two months.”

“So where are you, then?”

“Guess.”

“You’re askin’ me to guess where you are based on your voice?” 

“Affirmative.”

“Bleedin’ Jesus…”

“I’ll let you ask questions,” Ghost offered, before seemingly considering it— “five. I’ll let you ask five questions.” 

“Ghost,” MacTavish grumbled, scrubbing at his eyes as he looked down at his desk.

“Unless— I mean,” Ghost replied, before he paused; for a second, MacTavish could practically see the way he’d hesitate, sounding out words silently between his lips as if he wanted to feel them before he spoke them— “I can hang up if you have something better to do.”

Despite Ghost often taking every opportunity to needle him, MacTavish knew that the question was genuine. He’d spent too many late evenings with Ghost, doing work he absolutely couldn’t avoid, with Ghost sitting with his head resting on folded arms, tucked in one corner of the desk and quiet as his namesake. There was no real purpose of it, it was all work he could do alone— but if he closed his eyes, Ghost was only on his sofa, head on the armrest so he could look at him upside down; MacTavish gave a little glance down at the budget report he was painstakingly going over, and decided he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Ghost if he brought it up.

“No,” he replied, putting the pen down, “no, I don’t. You said five questions?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Ghost hummed to confirm, and he could practically hear the smile in his voice, even through the phone. 

“Alright, I’ve got one. Where are you?” 

Over the phone, he could hear Ghost’s eyes narrow.

“Yes or no,” he insisted, petulant, “don’t take the fun out of it.” 

“Alright,” MacTavish sighed, long suffering, before raking a hand over his beard thoughtfully— “alright, you said a lighter was expensive— that means it’s, what, somewhere remote? Hard to get to?” 

“Not bad,” Ghost smiled over the phone— “I’ll count that as one question.” 

It wasn’t so bad. The clock ticked softly, his laptop hummed, and outside, the stars winked like they were telling him secrets; he wiped a hand over his mohawk and then back over his beard, and leaned back in his chair with a long creak.

“Was that your back?” 

“Why the fuck would that’ve been my back?”

“Is that one of your questions?”

“Fuck’s sake,” MacTavish sighed, wiping a hand over his face. It really was like Ghost was in the room with him. “What’s the sky look like, then?” 

“What’s the—,” Ghost began, incredulous, before there was the sound of shifting, and a curtain being tugged open. “It’s— I dunno. Grey. White. It’s cold.” 

“You on an island?” 

“A cold island?” Ghost echoed, not even hiding the disdain in his voice. “That sounds grim. No.”

“Cold, remote, not an island— and it’s daytime, you said the sky’s white. Alaska?”

“No— that’s four,” Ghost added, and there was the distinct sound of someone flopping down on a bed. “Don’t burn through them.” 

MacTavish paused to consider it, suddenly wanting to drag it out. He hummed thoughtfully as he leaned forward, resting his head in the palm of his hand—

“Give me a hint.”

“You don’t need a hint.”

“I do. I’m— I dunno. I’ve not got a clue.” 

“Yeah, you do. Go on. Guess.” 

“Ghost.”

“Soap,” he snarked back, and MacTavish rolled his eyes, making to come up with some sort of reply, when—

MacTavish knew the sound of mortar shells intimately. Before he even realised what he was doing, before he even bothered to consider whether it was his desk that was shaking, his eyes snapped to his window, raking over the dark horizon for the orange flames, for the bright light, for the smoke, for the darkness—

“Ghost?” He asked, somehow more alarmed when he came up empty, “Ghost, was that you?”

No answer, but the next moment, over the tinny speakers, he heard two more. They were distant, but close enough to be picked up on a phone— he heard a sharp inhale, a clatter, something shift, and blind, he scrambled for some sort of information as to what was going on—

“Riley? Jesus— answer me, what the fuck’s going on?” 

More quiet. He’d imagined Ghost was in a room, in a base, somewhere safe, because even Ghost wouldn’t do something as dangerous as calling him from anywhere near active combat, but the silence stretched, the shelling replaced by his pounding heartbeat in his ears, and—

“Fuckin’ hell, Riley, d’you copy?”

“I copy— Jesus,” Ghost answered finally, faintly breathless— there was another sound in the background, like a window being slammed shut, before his voice came clearer— “I copy, I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“What the fuck was that? Are you solid?”

“I’m fine,” Ghost said again, terse: “it’s fine, it’s still miles away.” 

“What is?” 

He was only met with silence— MacTavish resisted the urge to raise his voice, as if that would make Ghost give him an answer, and settled for raking an agitated hand over his hair.

“It’s only training exercises,” Ghost told him, several moments too late.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Ghost frowned, “really.” 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. He knew, between the strength of the blast and the tense seconds that had followed, that Ghost was lying, if only to make him feel better, but he didn’t want to push it unless Ghost became defensive, or hung up; inexplicably, the guessing game they had been playing made him feel worse, as he was suddenly able to imagine an image to go along with his fears, of Ghost somewhere isolated, alone, cold, in danger—

“That was five questions, by the way.”

“What?” MacTavish blinked, momentarily distracted—

“You asked something like six things in a row. You’ve gone well over five questions.” 

Despite himself, MacTavish huffed a laugh, exasperated; it stretched into a sigh, and he leaned forward on his desk, placing his head in his free hand.

“You won’t tell me, then?” 

“No,” he imagined Ghost crossing his arms with the answer, “since when do I reward slackers? Now you’ll just have to wonder.”

“If it wasn’t Alaska, it’ll be Siberia.”

“If you didn’t waste your last question, I could have told you if you were right,” Ghost replied haughtily. MacTavish rolled his eyes, and then scrubbed at them— he glanced back down at his work, and then back at the phone, closing his eyes.

“You’ll never guess what I’m doing, then.” 

“What, you’re going to give me five questions, too?” Ghost replied, and MacTavish couldn’t help the way his heart lifted at the fact that he could hear Ghost’s smile in his voice.

“What, you need ‘em?” 

“No. Course not. You’re doing the budget reports.” 

MacTavish’s eyes narrowed. 

“Have you got cameras in here?” 

“Oh, yeah. One in your bedroom, too.”

“Jesus. Do I want to know what you do with the footage?” 

“It’s blackmail,” Ghost replied primly, “six hours of you gelling your hair to get it to sit right every morning. Got to have something to keep you in check.” 

On a joint team he’d been on, once, another soldier had complained to him that Ghost was difficult to keep up with. While he’d scolded the soldier for the borderline impropriety at the time, privately, he agreed; in the distance from the phone call, there was a sound almost like thunder, but he was forced to ignore it for the rather ridiculous smile that had split his expression, one that he’d never give Ghost the pride of knowing about.

“Really funny. How did you know?” 

“It doesn’t even move in the wind, sir, it’s like a rock. Roach reckons that if we were to—”

“About the budget report,” MacTavish cut across him, only half-feigning the annoyance. Ghost huffed a laugh like he knew it all the same, self-satisfied even like that—

“First Wednesday of the month. You always do it, always complain about how much we waste in the rec room on Thursday mornings, because you’re tired— you’re very predictable,” Ghost told him, tone making it abundantly clear his only intention was to annoy him, “s’not good. Habits can get you killed.” 

“Calling your captain while you’re deployed can get you killed.” 

“What would you have me do,” Ghost replied, utterly unconcerned, “what, hang up and let you sleep?”

“I don’t need to sleep.”

“Yeah, you do,” Ghost frowned, like he could see him— “you sound tired.” 

“I’m not.”

“It won’t kill you to delegate some of it occasionally,” he pointed out, but his voice quietened slightly, with something almost like sincerity. “You let me do it when I’m there.” 

“You’re not here, though, that’s the problem.”

“Oh, come on,” Ghost practically rolled his eyes, “Decker, Sandman— Jesus, even Meat’d figure his way around a budget report if you locked him in a room with one long enough. Hey,” he cut across himself as something seemed to occur to him, “maybe you’d like them lot as much as you like me if you let them work in your office with you at night.”

“Really? You think that’d work?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost insisted, doubling down, “they’d grow on you. Like I did!”

“You were a one-off.” 

“Roach would cry happy tears if you let him do your budget report.”

“Roach writes like a preschooler.” 

“You write like you want to snap all your pens.”

“You just have an answer for everything,” MacTavish replied, eyes narrowed, “don’t you?” 

Ghost huffed a laugh that caught in the mask, the sound soft. They lapsed into silence for a moment, and MacTavish looked down at the budget report again, and back up at the clock, feeling the edges of the tiredness he was so insistent on denying—

“I—,” MacTavish began, pausing. “I don’t know when I’m next going to be able to talk to you.” 

The silence that followed made something in his chest squirm. He glanced at the phone again, fiddled about with his laptop, and felt something suspiciously close to frustration growing when the quiet stretched—

“My phone number’ll disappear off of your phone when I’ve gone dark,” Ghost provided finally, “and I only switch it back on when I’m free. You can just check if it’s there— if, I mean,” his voice was deliberately casual, “if you need me for anything.”

“I’ll be able to reach you?” MacTavish asked, unable to help the little note of hope in his voice. 

“You know,” Ghost replied evasively. “Only if you need me.” 

He couldn’t help the smile at that, wiping a hand over his beard as if to hide it, even when he knew Ghost couldn’t see him— 

“Means I can fax over these incident reports I need filling out, too?” 

“Means you can leave them on Sandman’s desk,” Ghost replied, and the smile was soft in his voice, private, “and go to sleep. It’s late, and Poet’s got a bet on that you’re going to come in tomorrow morning and immediately complain about how much coffee we get through. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” 

“S’pose you’ll have to be going to buy that lighter, then?” MacTavish asked, trying and failing not to sound disappointed at it; Ghost laughed softly, the sound sweet like honey.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

“No promises.”

“Now get some sleep,” Ghost ordered, with the distinct impression of someone shooing a cat away— “go on. World isn’t going to end just because you didn’t fill in a form right.” 

It wasn’t like Ghost would know if he stayed in his office and kept working. And it wasn’t like, as much as Ghost liked to pretend otherwise, he had any authority with which to order him around; so he wasn’t exactly sure why he found himself sighing, stretching, dropping the budget report on a pile of pending documents and snapping his laptop shut.

“Alright— alright, fine,” he sighed, leaning back and scrubbing at his eyes. 

“What— really?”

“Really,” MacTavish agreed tiredly, “you won’t leave me alone until I sleep and if I’m not getting any work done, I might as well.” 

“Alright,” Ghost agreed, not quite managing to hide how proud of himself he sounded. MacTavish resisted the urge to yawn in favour of standing and stretching with several questionable clicks of his back; Ghost was quiet for a moment, so that all he could hear was his breathing, as if he was really there with him. If he concentrated, he imagined he could still hear the shelling in the background, and hoped it was far, far away—

“Ghost.”

“Hm?”

“Be safe, alright?” 

“When am I not safe?” Ghost asked, like he was being particularly thick.

“Riley.” 

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Ghost waved him off, but the next moment, his voice softened with surprising sincerity. “You stay safe, too.” 

The next time it happened, it was six minutes past midnight, over a week later.

 The strange bit was, the nightmare wasn’t even about Ghost. It was a mission from months ago, but his brain had replaced his men with the soldiers out of his old squad, and he’d been too young and too powerless to do anything but watch, a rebar cutting straight through someone’s shoulder, a gunman hidden behind a door he forgot to check, dead men dying over, and over, and over again—

It had nothing to do with Ghost. So he had no reason, when he jackknifed awake, drenched in sweat, for his first reflex to be to frantically check the bed around him, and when it was empty, for the second to be to go straight for his phone on his nightstand.

The numbers on his alarm clock glowed neon green, the dots between the hour and the minutes blinked at him as he forced his breathing to slow, switching on his phone and scanning desperately through his saved numbers before his eyes landed on a familiar sight.

It hadn’t been there a few hours ago, when he had checked before he had gone to sleep. Which meant that, wherever Ghost had been, he’d returned safe, or at the very least, alive— he allowed himself to imagine him for a moment, switching his phone back on, scowling over nothing.

They had entered a cold snap, and despite the heating and the blankets, he was still cold. Vaguely, he considered slipping out of bed to tug on a hoodie, an older one that was stretched out that wasn’t nice enough to wear outside but comfortable enough for cold nights— he realised, a moment later, that Ghost had managed to swipe it out of his cupboard and had taken it with him to wherever he was. 

It was a strangely soothing thought to his jangled nerves. He laid back down, still holding his phone, and read over the number again and again, as if it would change— the night sky was dark, covered with clouds, and a crescent moon peeked between them. 

He was hesitant to describe it as missing Ghost. It wasn’t quite enough to describe it, a light word for the constant unrelenting ache of it; it was more like how he imagined it must be to lose a limb, to constantly expect it with him, to stretch muscles that weren’t there, the perpetual ache at where they had been severed. 

Or maybe he just missed him warming up his bed, or the soft feeling of his skin under his hands, the scent of him in his bedsheets. 

Sometimes, he wondered why Ghost let him get away with as much as he did. Ghost seemed to give him everything, and he still wanted more; he looked over the number again, thumb brushing over the call button, and wondered if Ghost wanted more, what he would do if he asked for more, if he would give it as freely and as earnestly as he did everything else—

MacTavish wasn’t sure what exactly happened. One moment, his thumb was only brushing the button, and the next, the phone was ringing in his hand.

He floundered for a second, sitting up. If he hung up, Ghost would see the missed call, and only call back to worry, but if he answered, he didn’t know what answer he would give, didn’t want to tell him that he’d only been mourning the way he’d washed his sheets since he’d left and he couldn’t smell him on them anymore, and before he could even make the choice—

“Riley.” 

Fuck.

The voice was tinny on the phone as he held it. He paused for a moment, propping himself up as he weighed his options, before sitting up fully and pressing the phone to his ear—

“Ghost?”

“Yeah?” Ghost replied, voice thick with tiredness. “Whas’a’matter?” 

“Have you just woken up?” 

“Haven’t you?” Ghost asked, and there was the sound of shifting in his sheets. “What’s the matter, sir, why’d you call?” 

Because he was thinking of him, his mind supplied uselessly,  or maybe because he was missing him— or maybe, he could just tell him, come clean and say it, that he was only calling because he was up at midnight craving him, missing him, loving him—

“I thought you called me?” 

It wasn’t exactly an airtight excuse. There was a moment, where naively, he hoped Ghost would spare him, before—

“Jesus,” Ghost laughed, the sound sticky and sweet, before he heard the phone deposited somewhere and Ghost’s voice further away, as if he’d dropped it on his pillow to keep talking to him. “‘f you wanted to make an excuse to talk, you could’ve made a better one.” 

“I’m not— making an excuse,” MacTavish argued immediately, somehow aware, even through the phone, of how little Ghost minded the lie— “I was just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ghost waved him off, “I don’t care, one way or another, I’m just saying. You should think up better excuses. For posterity.” 

“Right,” MacTavish rolled his eyes, but copied him to switch the speaker on and place his phone on his pillow by his head, lying back down. “What, is it nighttime for you, too? Are you in a closer timezone?” 

“Mh— no,” Ghost mumbled, voice squished, as if he was pressed into a pillow. “‘S ten past four ‘n the afternoon. Just got back from an op.” 

“Ten past four? So that means you’re in—”

“Don’t try and guess,” Ghost cut across him, voice slightly clearer. “Properly classified, this one.”

It was a vague answer— and more often than not, vague meant dangerous. He tried not to worry about it, but suddenly found himself wishing he had something of Ghost’s with him— he paused, and then sat up to rummage around in his nightstand, finding a spare mask that had somehow migrated from Ghost’s pocket.

“But it’s late where you are,” Ghost said, as if MacTavish had said something— “what’re you up, for? What, are you not in Credenhill?”

“I am, I am.”

“Well, it’s not a Wednesday,” Ghost sniffed, “so it’s not paperwork— training exercise? Mission plans?”

“I just can’t sleep, Ghost.” 

“Well, you could’ve just said that, then,” Ghost insisted, as he pressed the mask to his chest, tugging the blankets up higher. “I can’t sleep either.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“It is,” Ghost flared, despite the fact that he could hear how tired he was. Despite the fact he’d seen Ghost’s room, and knew he only ever slept with the bare minimum, Ghost was always more than happy to surround himself in MacTavish’s pillows and blankets, tucking them around himself with tactical precision, as if he was on a mission to get himself to sleep; MacTavish imagined him for a moment, squeezing the mask tighter, as if it might bring him some warmth.

“Alright— talk to me, then.”

“About what?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll tire yourself out.”

“And what, bore you to sleep?”

“Affirmative.” 

“You’re horrible to me,” Ghost grumbled, poorly stifling a yawn. “It’s— what's it called, maltreatment of subordinates, this.”

“See? There you go,” MacTavish replied, only half joking. “I’m fallin’ asleep already.” 

Ghost muttered something indistinct, overdramatic. The familiarity of it didn’t quite make him ache, but it squeezed around him like an embrace; he tugged the blanket to his shoulder, pressing his face into the pillow. 

“Mm— not got anything to talk to you about,” Ghost mumbled, voice muffled between the shifting of his blanket. “Can’t tell you where I am— can’t tell you what it’s like, either.”

“What’s the weather like?” 

“Hm,” Ghost huffed softly— “it’s— rainy. Monsoon season, so there’s a foot of rainwater everywhere. First time in two weeks that I‘ve had dry socks.” 

“Two weeks? What, you’ve been on an op?” 

“Don’t try guess,” Ghost griped, around another, even worse stifled, yawn. “Mm— god, I dunno what you want me to tell you. Could tell you about— about military strategy. ‘Ll get out my copy of the field guide.” 

“No. I’m not falling asleep with the same routine you use on my niece.” 

“S’worth a shot,” he grumbled, and in the far distance of the call, he was almost sure he could make out the rain. 

As much as Ghost was trying to deny it, he’d woken him up. But for the life of him, he couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty about it, not when Ghost’s soft breaths came through the mic like he was lying in bed facing him; Ghost slept with his back to the wall, always on guard, and MacTavish slept with his back to the door, defensive even when he managed to fall asleep— perfect together, even like that. 

“You know— you know, my little brother used to have nightmares.” 

“Hm?”

“Like— when he was a kid, but when he was an adult, too. We both had them, but he’d get them worse when he was stressed. We had this routine where I’d go around and get every blanket and pillow in the house and pile ‘em on top of him, ‘n then he’d sleep fine.” 

MacTavish didn’t know how exactly Ghost decided to tell him the little pieces of his family that he did— but it painted a sweeter picture of him than Ghost would ever normally admit to. 

“I remember it the night before—  before he got his job, first day as an apprentice— and when he got custody of Joseph again, before I came back to the Army— Jesus, I don’t think he slept before he got married, think he figured he’d take his chances. The night before he cracked three energy drinks, and I told everyone he was only shaking because of the nerves. Might have been a bit of nerves, anyway.”

“You were the best man, weren’t you?” MacTavish asked, more to keep Ghost talking than anything— Ghost hummed the confirmation, the sound languid with sleep.

“Mhm. Did a speech ‘n everything. No one thought they’d get married— at each other’s throats until Jo was born, and for months after that, too. Still don’t know what happened, one day Tom was telling me he never wanted to see her ‘n the next he’s bringing books home from the library to impress her with.” 

They lapsed into silence— half because MacTavish didn’t want to draw any attention to the moment, and half because he was sure Ghost would clam up if he said the wrong thing, and half because he had a sneaking suspicion Ghost was falling asleep. He couldn’t help but be drawn into the image, for a moment— Ghost in a tuxedo, smiling wide, a flower tucked in his lapel, the colours of stained glass reflected in his eyes—

“You ever wanted to be married?” MacTavish blurted out, before he could stop himself. The silence unnerved him, even if he knew it was probably just Ghost blinking himself awake— like it would make a difference, he closed his eyes, and for a second, he could feel Ghost tuck himself into him, always chasing warmth.

“Mh. I dunno. Do you?”

“I— maybe,” MacTavish replied, and suddenly was shy with the admission— “maybe, yeah.” 

“Can just see it now,” Ghost smiled softly— “big church wedding. Your mum in the front row. You in a big, puffy white dress.” 

“You’d be the one wearing a dress,” MacTavish corrected automatically. There was a moment, before he could practically imagine Ghost blinking, finally catching up—

“What?” 

“I mean— if you ever got married,” MacTavish hurriedly corrected, eyes opening only to find the green screen of his phone, the only light aside from his alarm clock— “you know— I mean, if you wanted to.” 

At the very least, Ghost laughed at that, the sound tumbling from the speakers like musical notes. He stifled it into a fist, and the fact he could hear the little movement, even miles away, made the air in his room feel warm, close.

“See?” Ghost smiled, as the edges of his vision seemed to soften. “Where’re we going to find you a girl, sir? All that sweet talking…”

“I don’t need a girl,” MacTavish insisted defiantly, eyes falling closed despite himself. 

“Married to the job,” Ghost ribbed, but it came out around a sigh, quiet and low. He hummed softly, an involuntary sound as if he was stretching; more silence, widening as if he was just being invited to fall into it.

“Keep going about your brother, then,” MacTavish told him, and it went to how much Ghost trusted him that he only mumbled a soft sound of acknowledgement before shifting to keep talking.

“Mh. He was— what’s it called, a bricklayer. And then he didn’t like it, so he became a welder. He wanted to be a tattoo artist, though.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost huffed a very quiet laugh at his surprise, “really. I think he was applying for jobs in it— when Jo was a bit older, and Beth got qualified. I was— I think I wanted to ask him— I mean, when he got the job, and properly trained, if he’d do some— cover up tattoos. Figured… I don’t know, it didn’t really matter, but I figured Joseph’d be less— scared if I got them.” 

“You don’t scare people,” MacTavish argued, eyelids suddenly seeming heavy; Ghost made another indistinct sound, half muffled into his pillow.

“You’d think that. You’re insane. You’re married to this job, and it’s made you… made you insane.” 

“Seems about right,” MacTavish hummed, and it was like walking through deep, freshly fallen snow. There was something slow and syrupy about it all, and it took MacTavish effort to remember that it had been a nightmare that had woken him up at all.

“Mm— what else? God, I dunno. I dunno why you asked about this.”

“I wanted to know.”

“S’not interesting. You should…” Ghost trailed off, and didn’t bother to stifle the yawn, “you should ask me about something interesting. Ask about my kill count.”

“I don’t need to know all the interesting things,” MacTavish replied, listening to Ghost’s breaths lengthen. “I want to know everything. Everything about you.”

“There you go again,” Ghost sighed sleepily, half slurred and spoken into his pillow. “You’ll… mh, you’ll make some girl really happy some day, sir.” 

“Yeah?” 

Ghost didn’t reply, and there was only the sound of soft breaths, long and slow. MacTavish peeled tired eyes open to glance at the phone, and raised one sluggish hand to check the screen—

“Ghost?” 

No answer, but Ghost hummed softly again, like he was stretching in his sleep— it wasn’t like him to be anything but silent when he slept, curled up tightly as if he was always waiting for the blow to land, but he’d seen him when they shared a bed, letting himself go lax with sleep, clutching him like he did a blanket, absolute trust that he’d keep him from harm. 

MacTavish looked at the little green screen, watching the blinking letters of the minutes steadily increase. His mouth opened to say something to wake him up, and then closed, wordless— his finger hovered over the hang-up button, but at the last moment, he decided against it.

Let Ghost think he’d fallen asleep before he’d manage to hang up, he decided— let Ghost hang up after MacTavish fell asleep, preserve his own pride because MacTavish couldn’t bring himself to part from the sound of Ghost, finally asleep, finally back with him. 

He left the phone on his bed, and tucked the mask closer into his chest, under his chin, the spot where Ghost rested his head so that MacTavish could wake up with his nose buried in his hair. With that, he fell asleep— hours later, when he woke up pleasantly without nightmares and to the light of the early sunrise, he found his phone out of charge, cooling on his pillow.

“—stupid fucking idiot,” Ghost was saying firmly, “completely forgot to clear his own commands off after getting into the system, would’ve compromised the entire thing if I hadn’t caught him doing it—”

The roof was empty— a mercy, considering how absolutely packed the rest of the base was, everyone crammed inside after a logistics error had put three times the amount of men the base could handle in all at once. Rooms were doubled up, MacTavish was sharing his bedroom like he was back to being a sergeant, and according to Roach, the barracks were so full that they were sharing beds. 

“—and then he’d done that, he was the one who brought me to his office to shout, and I couldn’t even make out a bloody word of it, he was so loud—”

“You tell him that?” MacTavish asked idly, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he could kick the door open without spilling his tea. 

“Yeah— and get this,” Ghost added vehemently, apparently uncaring as to whoever could hear him on the other end— “after that, he only got more pissed! Started fucking threatening me with laps around the base, as if I was about to start following his bloody orders then—”

“Think him gettin’ more pissed had something to do with you telling him he was being too loud?” 

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Ghost agreed, before returning straight back to his issue. “Everyone here’s like that. There’s this cunt in logistics who they call in to consult on every single fucking mission plan— actually consider that for a second,” Ghost interjected, practically beside himself, “they call in this desk jockey into every single brief, and every single time, he’s got this folder of fucking flowcharts. Flowcharts!” 

The hum of activity underneath MacTavish might have led someone to believe it was the middle of the day, but above him, stars speckled the sky; at the darkest point of the night, an hour before dawn, the sky had gone the rich, deep colour of ink and the stars shone white-blue above his head, stark against it. He imagined that if Ghost was there, and perhaps not complaining about something that only he could take as a moral issue, he might have pointed out a few constellations— as it stood, MacTavish wandered over to a long abandoned crate of something, collecting dust against the wall of the roof, and took a seat to face the horizon over the railing. 

“He’d colour coded them all and everything,” Ghost hadn’t stopped, and MacTavish was only half listening, blowing on his tea to cool it, “Jesus fuck, I suggested we do the breach a different way, we got into a fight over it, and then the six of us had to sit in silence for ten minutes while he found the right flowchart that told him my idea was the right one. Ten whole minutes for one flowchart, for an idea I’d already had.”

He couldn’t even remember what excuse Ghost had made to call him— only that he’d been waiting for it, checking his phone often enough that Sandman had made some sort of comment about it, and so MacTavish sent him to run drills with the non-special forces unit until sunrise in response. 

It wasn’t so bad, though. The tea was the type Ghost would like, and unlike the warm, busy base, the roof was cold and quiet— he leaned back against the wall, sipping at his tea, and listened to Ghost finally tire himself out.

“It’s stupid,” he said finally, sighing like he’d finally got it all out of his system. “Everyone here’s fucking stupid. It’s nothing like the 141. It’s like everyone wants to find the most inefficient way to do everything.”

“That’s the Army for you,” MacTavish replied, switching the phone to his other ear as his breath misted in front of him. The base overlooked a woodlands, and in the distance, he watched the night sentry walk the edge of the forest, rifles glinting in the dark— “you saying you miss the 141?” 

“I miss having people around who know what they’re doing,” Ghost snapped, and in his mind’s eye, he crossed his arms defiantly. “And Roach.”

MacTavish spluttered on his tea.

“What— Roach?”

“Yeah, Roach. We’ve got this running bet on how many times you can whisper Major Davies’ name before he turns around. I’ve got him one-upped with twenty-two and now I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“Whispering—” MacTavish echoed incredulously, before doing a double take at his phone— “are you two the reason Davies keeps missing meetings for bloody hearing tests?” 

The silence on the other end was telling.

“You two— you’re unbelievable,” MacTavish exclaimed, indignant as Ghost stifled a laugh, absolutely unashamed. “D’you have any idea how many times I’ve had to reschedule meetings with him? I’m getting you and Roach in my office the second you’re back on base.”

“Might be longer than you think,” Ghost replied, still smiling enough that MacTavish couldn’t focus on anything else, “I’m here for a while longer.”

“You—” the words registered, and MacTavish blinked, pausing— “what?” 

“Stay got extended,” Ghost replied easily, as if all the indignant anger in MacTavish’s chest hadn’t disappeared with a sinking sensation in his stomach. “Don’t start frowning about it, I’m the one stuck with these idiots—”

“Why?” 

To his own ears, his voice sounded upset— he knew, a moment later when Ghost paused, that he’d misstepped, somehow.

“Can’t tell you why,” he replied, after a moment. “It’s classified.”

“It shouldn’t be classified. I’m your CO, I should have clearance—”

“Well— you don’t, and it is,” Ghost snapped back, scowl audible. They lapsed into silence for a moment, both of them unwilling to push the issue or back down— but MacTavish knew Ghost was more stubborn than he was, and didn’t want to risk the only line of communication they had—

“How long?” MacTavish asked, voice barely softening. There was a silence, and when Ghost spoke next, his voice was subdued despite himself.

“A month. I think. No one’s giving me a clear answer.” 

Underneath him, the activity on the base didn’t let up for a moment. MacTavish opened his mouth, bit down on what he actually wanted to say, closed it without saying anything, unable to help the way it almost felt like something in his chest was leaking. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ghost mumbled, sounding like MacTavish felt. 

There was more quiet, thick and pressing. The roof suddenly seemed quite cold, the stars further away— what was worse than that, though, was the near guilty silence that was coming through the phone, like Ghost knew exactly what he was feeling. 

“Well—,” MacTavish began, sitting back and forcing something lighter into his voice, “well, at least for the time being, that’s probably for the best. We’re packed in like sardines over here.”

“Hm?” Ghost hummed, momentarily distracted—

“Logistics fucked up. Ozone says he’s sharin’ beds with two sergeants and both of them snore. There’s got to be 300 of us on this one base.”

“Dunno what Ozone’s complaining for,” Ghost replied, tone lifting, “he’ll snore louder than both of them easily. He’s like an engine.” 

“That’s what I told him— and I’m havin’ to share a room with two lieutenants, one of ‘em sleep talks and the other seems to think if he wanks off quietly enough, we won’t hear him.”

“I bet you’re losing your mind,” Ghost laughed softly, “having to share a room with them lot. Do they move all your stuff about?” 

“Everything. Got another fuckin’ captain in my office, too, can’t get anything done. Need you here to scare them all into behaving.” 

“You could put on the mask and do it yourself.” 

“You don’t think the accent’s a giveaway?” 

“You could do a Manc accent. I think you’d manage it.” 

“I doubt it.”

Ghost huffed softly, quieter than before, but he could imagine the smile under the mask all the same; he lingered on the thought for a moment, closing his eyes.

“S’not just Roach I miss,” Ghost added quietly, after a moment. MacTavish’s eyes opened, and he glanced at the forested horizon for a moment, unable to help the swell of endearment. 

“That right?” He asked, smiling a little helplessly. It was just like Ghost, really, prickly and standoffish until he was so sincere it made his chest ache, achingly careful when he said anything that bordered on affection, as if he’d never quite learned to shape his lips around it, as if he was aware of exactly how much power he held—

“I miss the kitchen, too.” 

MacTavish paused, the smile on his face twisting into a grimace of exasperated affection. He gritted his jaw to stifle it, as if Ghost could see it—

“It’s so bad in here,” he continued, as if MacTavish had said anything, “there’s nothing in the kitchen, they have it on an electric lock— all they’ve got on the armoury is a padlock, but they’ve put an electric lock on the fucking kitchen— and then when I opened it up, turns out they’ve got nothing in there, and—”

“I’m making Roach polish every bullet in the armoury, because of you,” MacTavish told him, only half joking. Ghost spluttered indignantly, and MacTavish sipped at his tea as he listened to him practically gasp for air before his incoming rant—

“What, you’re punishing him just because I did a little breaking and entering? What the hell was I s’posed to do? The cooks here spend all day with their thumbs up their arses— no wonder everyone’s so miserable, they’re all bloody starving to death! They’re giving us omelette and ham MREs for every single meal, the smell alone—”

MacTavish sat back against the wall, listening to Ghost only work himself up more, and sipped contentedly at his tea. In the distance, the sentryman made his next round, a shadow against the towering trees of the forest; his tea had cooled to a pleasant temperature in the night, and he listened to Ghost’s voice, closing his eyes. 

The edges of dawn were just touching the desert horizon when MacTavish was drying his hair on a towel, glancing at his phone on the way out of the bathroom. The lamplight cascaded over his cot in a soft yellow colour, and the moon had long since set, the sky the colour of a pale bruise; MacTavish gave the lilac dunes one final glance before closing the curtains and sitting down on his bed. His room was small, but comfortable enough, with a soft bed and a large enough desk, strewn with whatever had migrated from the makeshift office they’d given him since he’d been there. 

Ghost had given a hint to suggest his timezone was nearly twelve hours ahead, which meant that if he wasn’t on a mission, he’d most likely be free at around the time that the sun would just be rising for MacTavish; the new, earlier change to his schedule hadn’t earned many raised eyebrows, and tugging on a pair of sweatpants, MacTavish took a seat on his bed, scrolling through his contacts lists.

The swell of happiness in his chest when he finally spotted his number, slotted between two more, was embarrassing, but ultimately, it was only for him to know; he gritted his jaw to stifle the smile before Ghost could hear it, scrubbing at his hair one final time before throwing his towel over the back of his chair to sit back against his bedframe. Despite the night, the warmth of the desert breezed through the window, the smell of it soft and permeating— MacTavish hummed softly, scrubbing at his eyes before hitting the call button.

He found it rather endearing that as cagey Ghost was about details as simple as his name, he had no qualms about answering phone calls with it as a greeting— he pressed the phone to his ear, and sighed with something like relief as he heard the numbers dial. 

Aside from calling his family periodically to make sure everything was okay, MacTavish had never made it a habit to keep a running line of communication with anyone outside of contacting people over professional issues. As such, he hadn’t realised how much he worried about Ghost in his absence, or how much the silent weight of him stressed him until he was back; but no one had to know how much the few moments, snatched between their individual duties and lives, kept him afloat, kept him waiting, kept him hoping that perhaps, it wasn’t all as impossible as it seemed—

“The person you are calling,” the mechanical voice interrupted him, a robotic woman’s voice with all the humanity stripped away from it, “is on another line. Please hang up, and try again later.”

With that, the call went dead; MacTavish blinked, looked down at the phone in his hand, and tried not to feel disappointed.

It hadn’t happened before. When Ghost called, or when he called, they always managed to leave the line free for each other— while MacTavish only had his family to call, he’d assumed that aside from General Shepherd, he hadn’t had anyone else to call. 

Or— or, that meant Ghost was talking to Shepherd.

The jealousy was a rather new development when it came to Ghost. For most of his life, he’d been the one to outdo others, and even when he didn’t, it wasn’t jealousy so much as a raw, unbridled desire to do better than anyone else— and, rationally, he knew Ghost wasn’t anyone’s to have, that him laughing with other people, or smiling when he’d rucked his mask up to eat, so everyone could see it, or the little jokes he managed to keep with the rest of the 141, didn’t belong to him or anyone.

He’d elected to simply stuff the feeling in his chest down with the rest of them, where it wouldn’t hurt Ghost or anyone else. 

He’d never be upset at Ghost for it, but he couldn’t help the little frustration at everyone else, for taking something without recognising how much it mattered; even like that, he had to consciously remind himself that it wasn’t like Ghost was purposely avoiding him to call Shepherd, that given the choice, he’d probably be calling him too.

Nevertheless, it was a slow five minutes, despite his extensive training and experience in waiting as a sniper. He glanced at his clock all the way through it, and the moment it was up, he snatched up his phone, powering it on and finding his number again—

The phone rang, and MacTavish sat back in his bed, suddenly very aware of his breathing as it trilled. He closed his eyes, and stubbornly ignored the fluttering that was happening somewhere in his chest, wondering if Ghost was just getting ready for bed as he had just woken up, or if he had just woken up, too; he imagined him, for a moment, grumbling as he often did in the morning, sorting through his luggage which he knew was full of pilfered hoodies and sweatshirts, sun-warm and lethargic in the morning, and—

The phone connected.

“What?” 

MacTavish’s eyes opened, and he frowned.

It wasn’t so much the briskness of it— neither of them ever had enough time to indulge in wasting it— but it was surprising, when he was so used to the lilting tone in Ghost’s voice, or when he could hear how rough his voice sounded, terse and angry in all the wrong spots—

“Ghost?”

“What is it?” Ghost asked, in the same strained tone, voice pulled tight like it was liable to snap— “what d’you need?” 

“I— nothing,” MacTavish replied, sitting up slightly in his bed— “nothing, I was just calling to see how you were—”

“How I am?” Ghost echoed, something near disbelieving in his voice; the next moment, when MacTavish didn’t elaborate— “fine. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you—”

“Wait— wait,” MacTavish cut across him hurriedly, as Ghost threatened to hang up; he could practically hear him pause, and raked a hand over the mohawk, frowning— “Ghost— Riley, what’s the matter?” 

It was then that he became aware of the fact that he could hear the way Ghost was breathing.

It was laboured— too fast, jagged around the edges, like he had just woken from a nightmare. It came too quickly, shook in his chest the longer the silence went on, and when he seemed to become aware that MacTavish could hear him, Ghost held his breath, like it would make a difference—

“Ghost,” MacTavish frowned again, when Ghost didn’t answer; he pressed the phone to his ear, listening for anything, anything at all— 

“Simon—”

“I lost them.”

“What?” 

“Your tags, I—” there was a sound, like frantic rummaging, “I took them off before the mission, I swear I left them right here, no one could’ve been in here, but I’ve only just got back, and—”

“You took them off?” MacTavish echoed, sitting up straight— “Ghost, why did you—”

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble! I didn’t— if I get injured in the field, if anyone finds out, you’ll get in trouble, so I take them off before missions, and I—”

“Jesus— Riley, there’s no fuckin’ point of you havin ‘em if you take them off before missions, I gave you them so someone would contact me if you got hurt, if you—”

“I know— I know!” Ghost snapped back, and there was the sound of more rummaging. Abruptly, footsteps sounded, frantic steps over hardwood; there was the sound of a cupboard door being thrown open, things frantically being moved around—

“Alright—” MacTavish cut across him, “alright, just— alright, it’s okay— it’s okay, just breathe. It’s fine. Walk through your steps before you left backwards.”

“What the fuck d’you think I’ve been doing—”

“Lieutenant.” 

He didn’t like to pull rank on Ghost, really, but it had the desired effect; Ghost stopped, pausing, and he could hear the deliberate breath he took a moment later, slow and forceful. 

“I— I was out the door, got geared up in my room— uh,” he could practically imagine Ghost, anxiously running a hand over the mask—

“Did you have anything to eat before that?” 

“No— no, and even if I was, I had them on until— I took them off right before I left, and I—”

It wasn’t like Ghost to get so anxious over— anything, really; even after nightmares, he wasn’t nearly as frantic or worked up. MacTavish listened to him tumble over his words, the sound of more hurried rummaging, something being turned over and emptied, and—

“I left it under my pillow— it’s where I always leave it, I don’t know, no one’s been in here—”

“You’ve checked around the bedframe? Under the mattress?” 

“Yes— yeah,” Ghost nodded, and he listened to more anxious footsteps, another shaking breath, “around the bedframe, under the bed, around the mattress— I don’t know, I can’t leave without them, I—”

“You check to see if it’s in the pillowcase?” 

There was a beat. The sound of Ghost swallowing came sticky through the mic, but the next moment, there was the sound of shifting fabric, something being frantically pulled around, and—

“I— fucking hell…” 

The sigh of relief was palpable through the phone. There was the unmistakable click of metal against metal, before Ghost sighed, long and low, like he was sitting down; MacTavish couldn’t help but echo it, sitting back against his bedframe, running a hand through his hair. 

“You found ‘em?” 

“Mm-hm,” Ghost nodded, quieter than he expected. He waited, but when Ghost didn’t say anything else—

“What happened?” 

“What?” 

“You wouldn’t get so worked up about misplacin’ ‘em, and you know I wouldn’t care that much,” MacTavish told him— the call to Shepherd came back to mind, and he frowned, running a hand through the mohawk again. “What’s the matter, what happened?” 

There was more silence, but quieter, somehow. He glanced at the phone to double-check the line was still connected, before—

“Just a nightmare.” 

“You had a nightmare? When?” 

“Right before you called.” 

Ghost was several things, but more often than not, when he wanted to keep people out of his business, he’d outline his boundaries with blood, choosing fear as a deterrent— he wasn’t a practised liar, was what MacTavish was saying. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to it, or because it was him he was lying to, but MacTavish could practically hear it in his voice; he paused for a moment, too afraid to be openly accusatory in case Ghost hung up—

“Right before I called?”

“Mm-hmm.”

If he could help it, Ghost never admitted to having nightmares, even if it wasn’t a secret. And he’d told MacTavish that he’d only just got back from a mission— and, when he’d called, he’d been on another line. 

The only other person he said he called was General Shepherd. 

“John?” 

“Hm?” MacTavish blinked, “what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. You just went quiet.” 

“It’s— nothing,” MacTavish replied, and then both of them were lying. He went quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say— Ghost was uncharacteristically subdued, as if he was waiting for orders. 

It was slightly unnerving. He waited for several moments, and when it became abundantly clear that Ghost would neither say anything nor hang up—

“You’ll never guess where I am.” 

“Hm?” 

“We’ve been redeployed,” MacTavish told him, plucking a pillow from his bed and punching it into a more comfortable shape to lean against— “five. I’ll let you ask five questions.” 

Far too quietly, in a way that made his chest clench, Ghost huffed a very soft laugh.

“S’alright. I’m just tired, I don’t need to—”

“Bullshit. You’ve got energy to argue with anyone on two hours of sleep and now, all at once, you’re too tired? What, you need more than five questions?”

“No,” Ghost replied testily, before breaking off. “It’s a security risk. You shouldn’t be asking me to guess.” 

“Aye, and what’re you goin’ to do, talk to the Russians, sell me out?” 

Ghost didn’t say anything, but he could hear the quiet smile the same way he could when Ghost was wearing the mask; MacTavish blew air out of his cheeks and leaned back, folding an arm behind his head.

“What’s the matter, you need a hint, too?” 

“No,” Ghost argued again, and then, a moment later, like he couldn’t help himself— “you in the Northern Hemisphere?” 

MacTavish couldn’t smother down the smile at the fact he’d managed to wear him down; he stretched his legs out on the bed, and pretended to think about it.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“What’s the weather like? Is it warm?” 

“Affirmative. Gets to 40 degrees in the day.”

“You by the coast?” 

“No,” MacTavish replied, “you’ve only got two left, don’t—”

“Jordan.”

MacTavish blinked, and then his eyes narrowed.

“You really do have cameras in here, don’t you?” 

“It wasn’t hard,” Ghost told him, like he was being particularly stupid, and it probably should have annoyed him except for where he was relieved to hear the edginess of Ghost’s voice finally disappearing, where he couldn’t help but warm for the self satisfied tone in the way he sounded, “you wouldn’t ask me to guess in an active zone, because you’re way too careful— 40 degrees in the northern hemisphere means you’re in a desert— we’ve only just done that training exercise in the US, so that rules that out. Only place with bases not by the coast is Jordan. S’not hard.” 

Impressed, and, not that Ghost needed to know, a little stunned, MacTavish wiped a hand over his beard, stifling the smile even though he knew Ghost couldn’t see it.

“Forget how bloody clever you are, sometimes.”

“Are you saying I normally come off as stupid?” 

“No—” MacTavish spluttered, “no, I’m not— Jesus, you make it really hard to compliment you, you know?” 

“Good. You don’t need to,” Ghost brushed him off, but he sounded more like himself, less quiet like he was waiting to be dressed down—

“I want to.” 

“Don’t.”

“Fuckin’ hell…” MacTavish sighed, slumping back against his bed. 

“What’re you doing up so early, anyway? It’s half past four in Jordan.”

“Nothing. Sorting logistics,” MacTavish brushed him off, and before Ghost could consider it too deeply— “you ever find that lighter?” 

“They won’t have you sorting logistics— you’re only visiting,” Ghost pointed out, and then— “no. And I’ve lost the replacement, too.” 

“You’ve got holes in your pockets.”

“You’ve got holes in your pockets,” Ghost argued, petulant, “it’s your bloody hoodie. What’re you really up, for?”

The scent of the desert was drifting through the window in earnest; in the far distance, the calls for the morning prayers drifted over the horizon, long and languid. He imagined, if he opened the window, the lilac dunes would steadily be painted the pale blue of sunrise— MacTavish smiled, lying back, and passed the phone to his other hand.

“Obviously,” he told him, “the only reason I’m up is that I’ve woken up three hours before everyone else to talk to you.”

“Obviously,” Ghost echoed, disbelieving. “You know I’ll figure out what you’re really doing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” MacTavish replied, closing his eyes. He could practically imagine the way Ghost’s eyes would narrow, caught on a target, and indulged in the visual image for a moment. 

In the tiny crack between his curtains and the window, he could see the sun rising in earnest. 

“Mm— Riley?” 

“Still here.” 

“Keep the tags on,” MacTavish told him, and couldn’t help the edges of seriousness from encroaching on his tone— “off the field and off it.”

“John—”

“I’ll make it an order if I have to.”

“You’ll get in trouble,” Ghost argued, insistent, “you could get court-martialled if anyone found out— or worse—”

“You’re legally dead,” MacTavish replied— “it’s not like anyone’d be able to connect us even if they did find them— they’d put it down to a coincidence—”

“Shepherd’d know.” 

It was wrong, the way Ghost’s voice sounded— subdued, quiet, small in a way he never wanted Ghost to feel. He frowned, eyes opening to face the ceiling, and was silent for a moment.

“I’d rather— Simon,” MacTavish insisted, with as much sincerity as he could manage, “I’d rather get in trouble with Shepherd than you get hurt, alone.” 

The light through the window was turning a pale blue with the sky, and there was a soft bustle as people were waking up, dragging their feet around the base. MacTavish’s hair was drying, T-shirt sticking to his skin, and he sank into his pillows, glancing over at his desk. 

He meant it. With his whole chest and heart, he’d sooner throw away his rank and his job if it meant that Ghost never had to live with the feeling that no one would notice, or care if he died. The sincerity made the air feel thick for a moment, and he swallowed, listening to nothing.  

“Alright?” He asked, when Ghost was silent for a moment too long; there was a short sound, something that Ghost made that he couldn’t quite decipher, before he could practically hear him nod—

“Alright,” Ghost echoed softly, “alright.” 

The quiet still lingered, but it was somehow lighter. It was normally Ghost filling in the silences, but as long as Ghost didn’t hang up, he wasn’t going to give him an excuse to. 

“Jordanian lads’ve got this bet going on how many people’ll pass out from heat stroke before the end of the stint— got a tally chart and everything,” MacTavish told him, listening to the soft huff of amusement.

“Really?”

“Their captain keeps tellin’ me he’s dealin’ with it, but I cornered a sergeant and he’s got a special bet on me for before Thursday. Doesn’t help I’m sunburned to all fuck.” 

“Like a lobster, I bet,” Ghost smiled, “Scots never tan. What happened to your suncream?” 

“It’s the one that cost a quid from the commissary. Lasted all of an hour before I looked down and realised I was cooking. And you can’t say anything,” MacTavish cut across himself, “it’s only all those layers that protect you.”

“And the fact I spend more than a pound on suncream for the desert,” Ghost pointed out, grin audible in his voice.

“You’re pale like a— like a ghost,” MacTavish insisted, chest fluttering as he listened to Ghost laugh quietly again, as if it was a secret, as if it was just for him, “you go out in the sun for a minute without all those layers and see what happens. You’ll set on fire.” 

“Yeah?” 

“And I’m pretty sure some of our lot are taking shares out the bets,” he continued, closing his eyes, “Toad’s got 300 riding on him and the other day I saw Ozone sabotaging his water bottle. Sent him to do laps in the sun and accidentally won Diver’s bet for her—” 

It was unprofessional. It threatened all those careful boundaries he kept drawing and breaking around Ghost, putting him and Ghost both in a dangerous and compromised position.

It was unfair. He was torturing himself like this, bending himself backwards just to hear Ghost smile, just to get rid of some of that awful, tense silence that he didn’t know what to do with.

Maybe, Ghost would tell him the truth about what happened and he could set about making it right. Maybe, he wouldn’t, and they’d both forget about it like everything else, pretend it hadn’t happened, all the better to stay a well-oiled machine on the field.

“—and Jesus, Captain Amir ended up buying a box of those heavy-duty deodorants and left it in the rec room. He’s too polite, is his problem,” MacTavish said firmly, “can’t say anything straightforward. Got half a mind to tell him I know about the bet, just to see what he does—”

But then Ghost laughed— out loud, like he meant it, and at once, it was suddenly worth it. He listened to it, helpless to the dopey sort of smile that had spread across his expression, something in his chest feeling suspiciously like it was melting—

“Jesus,” he snorted, and it reminded him of the sun breaking over the horizon in the morning, “I wish I was there to see that.”

“So do I,” MacTavish couldn’t help but reply, sighing softly. They shared a few seconds of quiet for a moment, and then when the moment of sincerity became too much— “I would’ve bet against you.” 

“Wh—” Ghost spluttered, immediately indignant, “well, you would’ve lost your money, because I have great endurance—”

“Your summer wardrobe is dark green. You’d melt.” 

“You’d melt!” Ghost argued furiously— “I’ve seen you the second the weather gets above 25 degrees. You get all sweaty and gross, and—”

It was two hours before the reveille, and he listened as the soldiers on base finished their prayers and went back to sleep, and watched as the sun steadily rose above the horizon, the day turning warm and golden. No one asked any questions about why he was fifteen minutes late to his duties— no one said anything at all, really, and so he kept it to himself like a secret, that they’d sat and talked until sleep was pulling at Ghost’s words and he was smiling wide enough that he could hear it, even through the tinny mic in his phone. 

It was half past nine in the morning when his phone rang next, the English sun streaming through the windows. Hereford was warm and dusty with it, and his office was flooded with sunlight and the sound of the drills being run on the field outside, a squadron of soldiers running laps around the building; he was sat, not for the first time, with his laptop whining across him as he poured over the incoming paperwork he’d been given. With muscle memory, he snatched up his phone without thinking, hitting the receive button—

“Alright? Barely heard the phone ring there!”

MacTavish paused, before checking the screen of his phone and blinking.

“Wh— Alice?”

“Well, there’s no reason to be soundin’ that disappointed,” Alice grumbled, and there was a squeak as if she was sitting back in her seat— “nice to hear from you too, Johnny.” 

“I’m not— disappointed,” MacTavish grumbled, “I just wasn’t expecting you to call. How are you? How’s Cece?”

He’d been meaning to ask for a new work-issued laptop for a while, as in the mild heat, the fans of it on his desk were whining like an engine; he was looking over several operational reports, the ones Ghost had signed and left for him before he had left.

“Cece’s fine, I’m fine, Tomasz is back so I’m doing less hours, and I’m only callin’ to check in,” Alice reeled off— “better question is, how’re you?” 

“I’m fine,” MacTavish rolled his eyes, giving a half glance to the clock. “Got a meeting in a few minutes. Might have to call you back.”

“Oh— alright, alright, before you go, then—,” Alice replied quickly, “I know you’ve got timed off lined up for a few weeks from now, right?” 

“I’m not rescheduling it,” MacTavish replied, glancing down at Ghost’s signature again, “if that’s what you’re askin’.” 

Legally, his name shouldn’t have been on any paperwork, but Ghost, always defiant, signed it off with a vague scribble that could resemble anyone’s name if it needed to; he ran his finger over the softly indented paper, and imagined Ghost’s hand brushing over it as he wrote.” 

“No— no, I mean that Tee’s comin’ up from Newcastle about that time too,” Alice replied, “and we’re all doin’ a dinner together. I was wonderin’ if you knew if Simon wanted to come along?” 

“Simon?” MacTavish blinked, momentarily distracted—

“Yeah!” Alice agreed enthusiastically. “Tee keeps askin’ about him, and it’d be nice! I’d ask him myself, but I think his number’s not working.” 

A little exasperated, MacTavish sighed, dragging a hand over his mohawk and then down over his beard.

“His number’s working, but he’s deployed,” MacTavish told her. “He’s been busy— he might not be able to make it.” 

“Come on, Johnny, what’s the point of bein’ his boss if you can’t get him time off? It’ll be for a Saturday evening, I’m sure he can take half a day. You didn’t ask him along to Cece’s first birthday, either,” she added, accusatory. MacTavish sighed, long suffering, and gave another glance to the clock—

“What’re you invitin’ him along for, anyway?”

“Well— you like him,” Alice pointed out, like that was enough. “And Tee wants to meet him, and Tomasz thinks I’m makin’ up details, so—”

“He’s properly busy, Ali, I dunno if I can…”

“Come on,” Alice insisted, “John, you want to, and I’ll bet Simon wants to come along too! You light up with him, and you’ve not seen Tee in so long, and Caro’s been looking at more things to mail, and—”

“Alright—,” MacTavish finally conceded, half in defeat and half to get Alice to stop. “Alright, fine, I can ask him. That’s it, no promises.”

“Alright!” Alice laughed, far too pleased with herself. It didn’t surprise him one bit that she and Ghost got along as well as they did, both far too happy to terrorise him to get their way; the thought of Ghost made him wonder where he was, and he was quiet for a moment as he considered it. It’d been over a week of quiet, and rationally he knew that he’d been on ops that had lasted months, that the chances of something going wrong were low, that the chances of something going wrong to Ghost were even lower— but he hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t spoken to him, only had the mask in his bedside and the tags around his neck to keep him company, and—

“Alice?” He found himself asking, out of the blue.

“Yeah?” 

“I go on those months-long deployments, don’t I?” 

“Is— that a question?” Alice asked, and MacTavish could practically see her eyes narrow.

“And Tomasz—,” he continued, dragging a hand through his hair again, “he spends half his year overseas, right? And you don’t know where exactly he is, or how he’s doing?” 

“Yeah,” Alice nodded, “so?” 

“How do you not—,” MacTavish began, and was suddenly hyperaware of how silly the question sounded, “how d’you not worry about it?”

Where he expected Alice to tease him, for a moment, it was quiet. The sincerity caught him off guard, and he listened as Alice seemed to choose what she wanted to say, thinking about it, and—

“Well— I trust you, for one, but John—,” she told him, “I always worry.”

MacTavish lifted his eyebrows.

“Huh?” 

“When we were kids, I used to sit up at night to make sure you were breathin’ when you got sick,” Alice laughed with the memory, the moment suddenly very soft, “I worry when Tomasz eats his dinner too fast. I worry about Cece when she’s strapped right to my chest. I worry about you when you’re right there in the room with me. It’s what you do when you love someone.” 

“I— oh,” MacTavish nodded, truthfully unsure of what to say. Alice sighed softly, unusually earnest. 

“But I trust you— I know you’re doing good things,” she told him, voice genuine, “I know you’re keepin’ people safe and that you’re happy doin’ what you do—I trust that you’ll come back. I know you keep your promises.”

The sun was warm through his windows, and for a moment, he watched the dust float through the air, the words getting caught in his throat; like she knew exactly what he was thinking, the next words were spoken around a smile. 

“You can trust Simon, too, you know,” she added gently. MacTavish huffed a laugh, and then dragged a hand down his face, glancing from the signatures on his desk back up to his clock, ticking softly. The hoodie that Ghost had stolen was still hanging off the back of his door, and he knew that if he glance under his sofa, he’d find the book of the week Ghost kept stashed there; he caught himself wondering what Ghost was reading for a moment, if he’d remembered to bring along anything to read, and then shook his head at how much he caught himself caring. 

“Thanks, Alice,” he told her, unable to help the slight smile twisting at his expression. And then, with a final glance at the clock and the time in the corner of his laptop: “I’ll call you back in fifteen.” 

“I’ll wake up Cece,” Alice replied, grinning, “see if she wants to say hello. She’s learnin’ so many words!”

With that, the call went dead; MacTavish sighed again, and then put the phone down. In a moment of indulgence he couldn’t help but allow himself, he fished around his collar to find Ghost’s tags— they were plain silver, nothing but a callsign and a blood type, so that Ghost had him as much as he had Ghost. He imagined how long they would’ve spent pressed against Ghost’s chest, and then carefully tucked them back under his shirt, pressing the cold metal in— at that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and it opened tentatively. 

“You asked to see me,” Roach asked, peeking around the door, “sir?” 

What you do when you love someone, had been Alice’s exact words. Fretting over, worrying after, wondering if he’d eaten or slept properly, if he wasn’t too warm or too cold, if he’d remembered to bring his thermal gloves or his summer jacket or his favourite masks, the ones that didn’t itch on long missions. 

It was stupid, really, in a way that Ghost often made him. He made a little mental note to ask him about the dinner, see if he could convince Ghost to come out with him and get him something to eat that wasn’t dry MREs or field rations, and filed the thought away to look up at Roach, who was standing rather guiltily in the doorway. 

“Come in and close the door,” MacTavish ordered, waving him in with a hand. 

He’d just have to worry, he supposed, worry until Ghost called next, worry until he next landed in Credenhill, worry even when he was seen by medical and dressed down to sleep and wrapped up safely in his arms, because that was what it meant to love Simon Riley.

With a long sigh, he sat back, crossing his arms as he looked up at Roach, standing opposite his desk with his hands behind his back. 

“Sir?” 

Well, until Ghost came back, he had a job to do.

“So,” he began, forcing all other thoughts away as he lifted one, unimpressed eyebrow, “what’s this I’m hearin’ about you psychologically torturing Major Davies, sergeant?”