Archive of Our Own

There were some mornings he woke up to hurt.

It wasn’t a difficult conclusion to come to; over a decade in the military service shaved off all the soft parts of a person to replace them with the sort of calluses that wouldn’t tear when holding a gun. Baby fat became scar tissue, bright eyed optimism hardened into the steel in the eyes that always allowed him to recognise other soldiers, even out of uniform. 

It didn’t mean that MacTavish liked it. 

It wasn’t even a nightmare that triggered it, just the way that his hands had looked when he had washed them in the morning— not really his hands, but he remembered them wrapped around his gun, so they had to be his. The rain was pounding against the windowsill when he got dressed, and his coffee tasted like shit, and when he checked the box, it was decaf anyway. He walked into his office to six waiting calls and a pile of work, an incident report involving a sergeant who drove like he’d never heard of a driver’s licence, his laptop being out of charge and the sticky note reminder he’d left himself yesterday about the meeting about the visiting non-special forces soldiers at half nine. 

He wasn’t born to hurt, he didn’t think, but maybe it was what he was good for, what he was best at. But thinking about that made the muscles in his shoulders ache, so he plugged in his laptop and got to work. 

His cousin had joined the military when he was twelve, and he’d been absolutely enamoured with the idea since then, desperate to follow. His mother had done everything to talk him out of it, but his heart had been set, and it had taken him a full ten years and his funeral for him to finally snap out of the spell he had been in. 

It hadn’t even been hostiles that had killed him in the end. Poor training, poor maintenance of their base, and a tour in Afghanistan. MacTavish didn’t speak to his cousin’s wife anymore; he got the impression she didn’t like him.

If Ghost was there, that would have been the point he’d have shoved the book he was reading that day back under the sofa to insist he go spar with him. 

Of course, he wasn’t there, and even if he had been, it would have begged the question as to whether the response to feeling like he was capable of nothing but violence was more violence— but more often than not, Ghost was right about those things, and so at around nine he got up to go to the gym. The rain was still coming down hard, and made the corridors disgustingly humid; he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and kept his head down until he passed the window.

Outside, a group of soldiers were waiting in the rain, all twenty four of them barely squeezing themselves in the short covered area of the grass. MacTavish did a double take as he spotted them, and diverted his route to throw open the door to approach them—

“What are you idiots standin’ around for?” MacTavish demanded, as soon as he stepped outside; several people jumped, and made to rush back into some kind of formation, silent immediately.

“Did I not just ask you a question?” He barked, turning to the nearest officer. The rain was even louder outside, and his shirt was already sticking to his back in the humidity.

“We were waiting to run the endurance course, sir,” she replied quickly, arms behind her back. 

“Waiting on what?”

“Uh— Lieutenant Riley, sir, he was supposed to be running it, or so we were told. Sir.” 

“What— when was he supposed to be here?”

“The course was said to start at a quarter to nine, sir, we’ve all been waiting.”

It wasn’t like Ghost to be late; MacTavish wiped at the mohawk, the officer hurriedly looking away as he glared.

“Well, if you knew he wasn’t coming, what the fuck have you been standing around for?! Go make yourselves useful, service your weapons, and if I see any of you with a filthy rifle tomorrow, I’ll have you all on latrine duty! Dismissed!”

“Yes, sir!” 

He stood for a few seconds longer as they all scrambled away; the rain didn’t let up for a second, and he groaned, wiping at his face before turning on his heel and stalking off. A handful of people had seen his outburst— unwilling to explain himself, he pushed past them, walking to the gym. Ghost wasn’t there; he had to manually unclench his jaw as his eyes raked over the empty gym. Captain Anderson, who was overseeing a handful of his men as they wrestled in an apparent free period, glanced over at him as he came in and caught his eye, excusing himself to walk over. 

“Everything alright?”

“Looking for Lieutenant Riley,” he replied, glancing over to the group of them; a handful of improvised weapons were already set up for a demonstration, and Ghost was nowhere in sight.

“I’ve set him to run the endurance drills for today,” Anderson explained, jabbing a thumb in the direction of grass outside, “Garber’s busy and I need those lot up to par.” 

“Well, I’ve just had to dismiss them,” MacTavish replied frustratedly, looking back to him. “He’s not shown.”

“What?” 

Anderson shook his head incredulously as MacTavish sighed; he would have let MacTavish demonstrate some takedowns if he had asked, which seemed infinitely more appealing than anything he had to do, but with Ghost now missing…

“I’ll find him and send him to you.”

“He needs to be here by half past,” Anderson replied, glancing over to his men— “he’s responsible for the close combat demo with the regulars.”

“Fuck’s sake,” MacTavish replied— Ghost would be representing the SAS, and if he was late— or worse, absent— it would be an awful representation of them all. “Alright, I’ll go find him.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

Ghost being missing was a completely separate headache to all his other duties; it wasn’t like him to be absent from duties, but he did treat a lot of his responsibilities far less seriously than he often should. He wasn’t in the rec room, and asking around, no one had seemed to have seen him— MacTavish had about fifteen minutes before he’d have to go and sit through a meeting, and the more he didn’t find Ghost, the more frustrated he got. It didn’t help that he had to avoid everyone he walked past, or that he had to manually stop himself from stalking about like it was a mission and not just his own base. 

The chances he was still in his room at nearly ten in the morning were very slim, but he ran out of places to look, so he made the short walk to the officers’ quarters. They couldn’t have Ghost’s name on his door like they had other officers, so his door was marked to be empty, and had a lock instead; the floor outside was scuffed with boot marks, and MacTavish walked up to it, knocking firmly.

“Riley.”

No answer. The quarters were empty, given that everyone at that point should have been out, and he wasn’t feeling patient enough to wait— thumping his fist into the door, he shifted from foot to foot.

“Riley. You in there?” 

The light wasn’t on in the room, there was no light under the door, so he supposed it could be empty; however, his patience wore thin, and he decided to just try the door and deal with Ghost if he had a problem with him coming in. 

The door was locked.

MacTavish took a long breath, glaring at the silvery handle as the frustration steadily ticked into anger. He’d been told once to count to ten when he got angry, but he felt like even if he counted to a thousand, it wouldn’t really help— he wrestled with the urge to just break the lock and kick the door open before it occurred to him that the door was locked from the inside. 

Ghost slept with the door locked from the inside.

“Lieutenant!” MacTavish nearly yelled, the door practically shaking with the force he was knocking. “If this door isn’t open in the next ten seconds—!”

It wasn’t exactly a sob that he heard— it was too small, too thin. It wasn’t quite a sigh, either— whatever it was, it had him pausing mid-sentence.

“Riley,” he said again, “open the door.”

“ Can’t.”

“What d’you mean? Ghost!”

He nearly kicked the door open; instead, he caught sight of an abandoned maintenance cart further down the corridor, and stopped himself, raking a hand through his hair again. 

“I’ll be right back.”

The maintenance staff carried skeleton keys for all the rooms on base, and it was four more minutes to find someone down the next corridor, prove his credentials, and take it with the promise he’d give it back soon enough— Ghost’s lock clicked with no protest, and he let himself in.

Ghost’s room was dark, slightly humid where no one had opened the window; the curtains were drawn, and the door to the bathroom was ajar. His things were still stacked neatly about, boots by the bed and glasses on the nightstand; but Ghost himself was in bed. Just sitting up as he came in, hair unruly and still in the T-shirt and shorts he would have slept in, he had clearly pulled a knife from somewhere, and was holding it in a shaking fist in what had to be a desperate attempt at self preservation— on spotting that it was just MacTavish, he pushed it back into the open nightstand, expression twisting in pain at the movement before he seemed to remember his being there and bit down on the scar tissue on the inside of his cheek to stifle his expression. The blanket was bunched up around his legs, his pillow defensively to his front, and there was a sheen of sweat over his forehead, cheeks flushed— it was so surprising to see Ghost ever let himself be that vulnerable that it stunned him into silence, and he stood in the doorway before realising anyone could walk past, hurriedly shutting the door behind him. He didn’t lock it, half because he was so surprised that it didn’t even occur to him and half because regardless of whoever could walk in, he wasn’t going to lock himself in a room with Ghost when he was visibly so far from being able to fight back. On his worst day, Ghost could probably throw a knife into a bullseye with his eyes shut; his hands were in fists around the pillow, and MacTavish wasn’t one to take chances.

“What’s the matter?” 

Ghost shifted before answering so that he was sitting up properly. His eyes were lucid, wet— 

“‘Nightmare.”

The logical next point was that he was awake, and must have been since rouse call over three hours ago, if not longer— at once, though, MacTavish understood.

When he had been 19, an improvised incendiary device a fellow lance corporal he’d been had made with had gone wrong; so wrong, in fact, that in the middle of the firefight MacTavish’s leg had caught fire, and he’d had to put himself out while ducking from enemy fire and returning it with all the same energy. His fatigues had taken the worst of it, but second degree blisters had covered his lower left leg; despite all of that, it had healed nicely enough, with not a twinge to speak of for the next two years.

Until, he had woken up twenty one on leave on Christmas Eve, nearly screaming with the way it was burning. He couldn’t explain it to his mother as he nearly cried at the sensation of her gentle hands over years healed scar tissue, nor to his sisters when they saw him limping for the next nine hours— nightmares had the capacity to follow any of them about in the day, a pain so deep no medicine could reach it. Psychosomatic, intangible, excruciating.

“Where does it hurt?” 

Ghost took a shuddering breath, squeezing the pillow again. 

“Back. It— fuck, it all burns.”

All of a sudden, his eyes flickered wide; he shoved the pillow away and made to stand with a groan he stifled behind gritted teeth—

“‘M I late?” 

Late didn’t even begin to describe it, considering he was supposed to be nearly four hours into his duties, but all of it fell away as MacTavish looked at him. He was in no position to be working; quite frankly, MacTavish would be impressed if he managed to stand upright. But Ghost was fighting, eyes squeezing shut as it seemed to occur to him why exactly MacTavish would have pounded on his door for five minutes before letting himself in; his skin was pale, and he could hear the force with which was breathing. 

“Riley. Come on, wait a second.”

“I had to run the— fuck— the endurance course—”

“You’re not in any position to— Ghost, for fuck’s sake—”

Ghost kept trying to get up; MacTavish closed the distance between them, and pushed him down back down easily. He overshot the amount of force he needed, and Ghost’s back slammed into the headboard as he fell— he clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound, but the choked off sob wracked through his body. MacTavish pulled back like he had been branded, eyes wide.

“I’m— Jesus Christ, Ghost—”

“It’s the whip marks,” Ghost explained, voice shaking, bordering on desperate— “they’re—”

“The whip marks? ” MacTavish echoed, tone betraying alarm; Ghost stiffened, hands balling into fists, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m late,” he said again, mouth pulled down in pain as he sat up straight again. “Captain— sir, I’m so late—”

“Fuck’s sake, I’ll tell Anderson you’re busy, just stay down—”

“Don’t tell Anderson!” Ghost snapped back, pain sharpening his tone into a cutting snarl. He braced his hands again, taking fists of his bedsheets. All of a sudden, a spasm of pain seemed to shoot through his body, shaking through him; a sharp gasp of pain escaped his mouth, and he was too late to stifle it into his hands. He blinked several times before sitting back, mouth falling open as he took great gulps of air, looking up at MacTavish like he was bracing for his reaction. 

“Don’t tell Anderson,” Ghost said again, voice minutely steadier; “he’ll— I need to run the close combat course— I’m not incapable,” he defended angrily, to nothing MacTavish had said. “It usually only lasts a few hours at most—”

“A few hours? How long have you been up?”

Ghost twitched in apparent pain, and the movement shot through him like electricity; he clapped his hands to his mouth, breath catching, and the next moment, raked a hand through sweat soaked hair—

“Four— five, I don’t know.” 

“It’s— Ghost, it’s half past nine!” 

“ What?!” 

Whip marks— he knew exactly what whip marks meant, but he was having a remarkable amount of difficulty connecting that back to Ghost. He was still valiantly trying to get up; MacTavish had a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and Ghost pushed him off, scowling—

“Needed to be in the gym by half past— sir—”

“You aren’t in any position to!”

“I can do it— I can—”

“Riley, stay down, that’s an order!” 

“I don’t—”

His voice broke with apparent pain, and he forced in another jerky breath, eyes squeezing closed— when he opened them, they were burning with anger. MacTavish’s hands squeezed into fists, and his shoulders were aching again, tight with the urge to fight. 

“I need to go.” 

“I’ll tell Anderson you can’t—”

“No— don’t say anything— I’m fine—”

“I’ll make something up. Riley.” 

At that moment, MacTavish’s watch beeped. Twenty-five past, he needed to be at the meeting soon. He had so much to do; it felt choking, between the humidity of the room, and Ghost still in front of him, jaw gritted and insistent, and the beeping of his watch seemed to take over everything else. 

He wanted to wrap his hands around something, and squeeze, he wanted to rip, he wanted to fire, to tear, to shoot—

He switched it off, and took a breath.

“Don’t tell Anderson,” Ghost said for the third time, looking up at him. MacTavish was still looking at his watch, watching the dots between the minutes and the hours blinking at him. 

“Stay here. That’s an order.”

“Captain—”

“That’s a fucking order, lieutenant!” He barked, rounding on him. “Sit here, shut the fuck up, and— and…”

The anger left as quickly as it came, but his voice echoed through the room. Ghost went still, eyes wide; mask off, eyes wet, he suddenly looked unbearably vulnerable.

He looked away.

“And stay here,” he said again, voice quieter. He couldn’t get his voice to soften, and realised his hands were still in fists.

“Yes, sir ,” Ghost gritted out. 

“Good lad.”

It came out more patronising than he meant, and Ghost twitched at the praise instead of responding to it; he turned and left, unable to stomach the sound of his own voice anymore.

The meeting was dull. 

He’d arrived on time before realising he still had the skeleton key, and nearly swearing— luckily, he ran into a custodian just outside the meeting room who offered to take it, and he was able to take his seat on time. It was dull, a meeting about the regiments that regularly used the base that the SAS thankfully wasn’t part of, and so he zoned out through most of it— it gave him the opportunity to collect his thoughts, allowing them to settle into a more manageable sort of static. By the time he got back to his office, he found that the humidity had left up, and that his pile of work wasn’t nearly as much as he had thought. Deciding to stop at the infirmary for some numbing cream for Ghost, he walked past the gym again, peeking in to see how the regular soldiers were faring. Despite not being special forces, they were visiting as part of an initiative to provide soldiers with an insight into the SAS and gave them the opportunity to learn. They were on the mats, watching a demonstration, almost starstruck by the spectacle; ducking in, he stood by the door to watch. 

He’d called Anderson to inform him of the sudden change, blaming it on a scheduling error where Ghost was suddenly and unavoidably busy— Anderson, who’d only placed Ghost in lieu of someone else, accepted it despite all his frustration. 

It was, then, somewhat of a surprise to push past the collected soldiers to see Ghost being bodily thrown into the mats, full force against his back. 

MacTavish hurriedly opened his mouth to say something, but the next moment, Decker was on him, a foam brick in hand; he lifted it, and moved to slam it into Ghost’s nose, only stopping short for the demonstration.

“See, if you had hesitated to scrounge for a traditional weapon like a knife,” he was explaining, “at this point, you’d’ve already lost the advantage. It’s exactly what Ghost was saying about understanding the weight of your weapon— a brick doesn’t have as much aerodynamics as a knife, but can do even more damage when you have the time advantage, especially when your opponent has no weapon.”

Ghost was still on the floor as he spoke, very still— as Decker spoke, he took a slow breath, and MacTavish imagined, behind the glasses, his eyes were squeezing shut. His expression was completely hidden behind the mask, which had clearly earned lots of interest among the regular soldiers; the stiffness convincingly passed as overexertion, the heavy way he was breathing barely noticeable as everyone’s attention stayed on Decker.

“You don’t have to be so soft on them, you know,” Anderson said from his side, stood in the doorway from where he had apparently been appraising the demonstration as well. MacTavish barely stifled the urge to jump; he was looking at him with something almost patronising, despite their common ranks. 

“What d’you mean?”

“He wasn’t busy, he was in the infirmary. And fine, I should add.” 

“Right,” MacTavish nodded, as Decker pulled Ghost back to his feet goodnaturedly; with both the glasses and the mask hiding his expression, the stiff movements looked convincingly like overexertion more than anything. 

“We all know he’s volatile at the best of times. Do us a favour, keep him on a shorter leash.” 

With that, and a good natured pat on the shoulder, he left MacTavish to watch. His hand tightened around the numbing cream he’d taken from the medical wing, and he shook his head before looking back up at him.

“You’re going to split back up into pairs,” Ghost told them all. “There’s a pile of improvised weapons that you might come across in an urban area— both pick one up at random. Decker’ll be here, go for the fastest takedown. Soon as you’ve done one, switch weapons and go again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” 

“Decker,” Ghost called out as soon as they dissipated into conversation. Neither had noticed MacTavish, and Ghost whispered something to Decker, who nodded, before giving him a supportive pat on the back.

MacTavish watched Ghost fully lock up, hands tightening into fists as he tensed. Decker said something, and maybe Ghost didn’t hear, because he shoved past whoever was in the way and all but ran out of the opposite door. Decker watched, alarmed, until a soldier caught his attention and he looked away. Taking that as his cue, MacTavish left too.

Ghost had the ability to disappear as soon as he wanted; despite how quickly he closed the distance between him and the other exit, Ghost was already gone. He looked around the nearby corridors, and into the next rooms, an echo from earlier— until he heard a thump from the maintenance corridor. 

He hurriedly walked over, looking inside; Ghost was there, leaning heavily against the wall where he had hit it, ripping his glasses off before he sank to his knees, a low sound escaping him. He pulled his mask over the bridge of his nose as he took a jerky, shaking breath, and then another— something that sounded suspiciously like a sob echoed through the corridor, and MacTavish watched him curl into himself, finally alone. 

He was crying, he realised, from the pain.

“Riley?” MacTavish asked, voice coming out all too hard.

Ghost jumped, and it was so painful for him that he didn’t even manage to stifle the sob that spilled out. He did try, though, pressing his hand to his mouth before hurriedly tugging the mask down and began trying to open the arms of his glasses to put them back on. His hands were shaking badly, as was the rest of him, but he got them open and—

“I left— I know— I’m sorry—”

“Hey— come on, hey—”

“Needed some painkillers— Anderson was there, and I didn’t want him to think you lied—”

“You told him you lied to me?”

“He assumed— didn’t correct him—”

He cut himself off as his breathing caught in his chest. He was still on his knees, and MacTavish realised it was because he couldn’t sit back against the wall— he approached, and Ghost pushed himself hurriedly onto his feet, stumbling. His expression was invisible as his back hit the wall, but the catch of breath was audible, as was the jerky way he gasped for air.

MacTavish stopped short. 

He didn’t like people running from him.

“You’re alright. Let me take you back to your room.”

“Sir—”

“Come on,” he said, offering a hand instead of stepping forward. Ghost hesitated, looking torn between his pride and the pain he was in, before breaking away and finally taking it, leaning against his shoulder. 

“There you are. Back to your room, yeah?”

“Mm,” Ghost nodded, taking a deep breath. 

Ghost’s room was a mess where he’d hastily got ready, the blankets still twisted and the air still humid; Ghost sighed with relief as he arrived, immediately moving to unzip his hoodie and shrug off the T-shirt before he realised what he was doing, glancing over at MacTavish carefully. He let go of the hem of his shirt and turned around to take off the glasses, visibly hesitating over the mask as MacTavish moved to open the window. The rain hadn’t let up, but as the window opened, the sound of rainfall filled the room, a calming thrum over everything.

Everything felt a little smaller, a little easier to deal with. 

“I got you numbing cream.” 

“How am I s’posed to put that on?” Ghost asked, glancing over. He’d opened the curtains a sliver to open the window, and the light reflected silvery in Ghost’s eyes, in the way his eyelashes had clumped together.

“You can lie down. I can do it.”

“Wh— no ,” Ghost snapped back, immediately defensive, stepping back. MacTavish immediately put two hands up, placating, before throwing the numbing cream onto the bed and in reach of Ghost. He softened slightly, looking at it, and blinked.

“I’ll get you off duties for the rest of the day,” MacTavish replied as he moved to leave, voice quieter. “Take the day.”

“Wait.”

Ghost was still looking between him and the numbing cream; as he moved closer to the door, something almost desperate crossed his eyes. MacTavish stopped short as Ghost visibly hesitated for the words.

“D’you want me to?” 

“I—” Ghost began immediately, before he seemed to tamp down the intrinsic urge to disagree. He was still standing, and looked everywhere but his face, eyes squeezing shut as he shuddered with another spasm of pain.

“It’s the shirt,” he admitted, voice wet, “it’s—…”

“It’s alright. Lie down,” he replied, flicking on the lights. 

“Can you keep the lights off?”

“Hm?”

“The— lights,” Ghost replied, voice softer. “Keep them off.”

“I need to see what I’m doing, Riley.” 

Ghost had taken a seat on the edge of his bed, apprehensive as he was hesitant— in response, he shook his head minutely, crossing his arms. Looking over at him, MacTavish sighed. 

“You’re goin’ to have to take off your shirt.”

“I know.”

“And lie down.”

“I know.”

“And let me touch—”

“ I know ,” Ghost snarled, arms tightening around his chest defensively. He tugged off his boots, stacking them by his bed, glancing up at him like he was bracing for his reaction. Finally, he tugged the hem of his T-shirt over his head and put it to one side, shoulders rounded. He turned to punch the discarded pillow into something more comfortable, but paused before lying down, turning to look up at him but only reaching his shoulder.

“Just— just my back, alright?”

“Yeah— yeah, course.” 

“Alright,” Ghost acquiesced, swinging his legs onto the bed, pulling off the mask before placing his head down onto the pillow. “Alright.” 

At once, MacTavish understood why Ghost had wanted the lights off.

It wasn’t disgusting, in that he could never disgust him, but it wasn’t by any means easy to look at. Large welts where the skin had been torn from his back criss crossed over his back, ending in deeper scars where there had to have been some sort of hook on the whip. Ghost’s expression was hid into his folded arms, but he was tense, and MacTavish sat on his knees by the bed to reach him.

“The whip marks,” MacTavish said, “right?” 

Ghost nodded, once. 

His hands were made for violence; the skin across his knuckles was darkened after years of splitting and scuffing, while the pads of his palms were thick with gun calluses. There was the scar on the side of one hand, the only one not born of some kind of violence— he had a straight line across one palm where he’d grabbed a knife, and a friction burn that ran up his arm where he’d been thrown from an APC. The first whip mark began below his waistband, a thick curve running upwards that had healed a shiny brown-pink. MacTavish wasn’t a coward by any means, but he wasn’t quite brave enough to ask Ghost, so he stayed quiet. The numbing cream was in a little silvery tube, and he squeezed a pea sized amount on his hand. He never quite got the smell of gun oil out from the grooves of his fingertips, and between that and the smell of the metal tube, he was somewhere else for a moment. 

But Ghost was in front of him, more hesitant every moment, practically shaking with the pain, and he forced his attention there, to the smooth texture of the cream and the smell of petrichor wafting through the window.

He put the cream onto the pad of his thumb, and started from what was visible, running his thumb along the ridge of the first scar. Ghost tensed up under him, muscle tight; he was always surprisingly smaller out of the hoodie, but had a considerable amount of muscle— wiping the cream carefully over what he had to imagine was all the painful skin, he made sure to add extra at the deeper mark at the end of each mark. 

Ghost was still under his hands. He didn’t notice immediately, but he hadn’t moved at all; immediately, MacTavish looked up, but his head was buried in his arms. 

“Riley.”

Ghost didn’t respond, arms tightening.

“Breathe. Riley— hey, breathe. Breathe for me.”

Ghost’s chest suddenly jerked three times in rapid succession, before he finally took an actual breath, head twisting to the side to do it; his face was tinged red, stained with tears, and he hid his expression as soon as he realised MacTavish was looking. 

“There’s a lad,” MacTavish said, voice softer. He put another pea sized amount onto the pad of his thumb again, swiping it along the next scar. Ghost shuddered under the contact, but stayed still; he grew increasingly fidgety as he moved upwards, though, and MacTavish tried to imagine the wounds fresh, the way Ghost would be feeling the phantom pain. Red, he imagined the scar tissue to have been, or the deep pink of raw flesh, the skin around it inflamed, leaking blood—

“ Ah —” 

Ghost hurriedly clamped his jaw shut to stop the sound; MacTavish lifted his hands as Ghost buried his face back in his arms. 

“Alright? D’you need a break?”

“No. Keep going. I’m fine.” 

MacTavish realised that Ghost couldn’t see his expression, but he must have felt the way he sighed against the skin of his arms, based on the way he peeked out from under his hair—

“What d’you get out of lyin’ to me, lieutenant?”

“Satisfaction,” Ghost mumbled in response, earning him a huff of a laugh from MacTavish.

“Course you would. Menace that you are.”

Ghost might have smiled, or done something similar; MacTavish wiped the hair from his forehead, pushing it back before offering his hand by his head. Ghost unfolded his arms to take it, and MacTavish was careful that the nozzle of the tube didn’t scrape his skin as he applied it one handed.

“How was the close combat demo?”

“Bunch of—” Ghost’s breathing caught as he went over the next scar, but he swallowed, and continued, “bunch of idiots. Told ‘em to name an improvised weapon in an urban environment and half of ‘em listed off types of pistols.” 

“You had Decker throwin’ you.”

“Wasn’t— nhn — I wasn’t exactly in a position to be throwing him, was I? Someone had to demonstrate.”

“Had to be you?” 

“Anderson asked. And—” Ghost’s hand tightened suddenly around his hand, mashing his fingers together; MacTavish carefully smoothed the numbing cream over the next scar up, between his shoulder blades, listening to the lurching breaths as he struggled for air.

“There you are. You’re alright. Doin’ so well, breathe for me.”

“‘N I was representing you,” Ghost gasped out, “didn’t— couldn’t fuck it up.”

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut, pushing his head back into the pillow to stifle another short sound. MacTavish let him squeeze his hand until it ached and then some; when the pain finally seemed to subside somewhat, squeezed it gently like an apology.

“You ran into Anderson.”

“Got unlucky. Was walking out the med wing and he was walking past— and— couldn’t explain myself, couldn’t let him think I’m— I was incapable.” 

“You can’t work like this.”

“M’okay.”

“Riley.”

Ghost looked up at him, guard immediately coming up at his tone; MacTavish opened his mouth to stay something, but found himself coming up short. Ghost pulled his hand back, tucking it back under the pillow. 

“Why not? Why can’t he know?” 

“Not— got anything other than this. Can’t get benched. Doesn’t matter if I’m fine most of the time— anyone thinks I can’t be in the field, and—”

“Why me, then?” 

Ghost blinked, looking at him; when no reply came, MacTavish opened his hand, and Ghost took it, interlacing their fingers again. The nozzle of the tube raked against his skin by accident, and Ghost’s hand came tight as he took a sharp gasp of air, letting it out shakily as MacTavish smoothed the cream over his skin. 

“Sorry,” MacTavish finally said, “for shouting at you earlier.”

“Wasn’t— your fault. Should’ve just listened to orders.” 

Ghost swallowed, as MacTavish smoothed cream over the final scar.

“S’why I got ‘em,” Ghost admitted into the crook of his elbow, looking away. “My mouth. Always gets me in trouble. Kept talking back, and they— nhgh— wanted to—…” 

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Saw your face, sir. Besides, it’s not like you’ll…”

Ghost shook his head, as MacTavish rubbed the numbing cream into the last welt at the end of the scar. It was almost star shaped, the chunk from his back, the edges so much harsher than the softer curve of Ghost’s neck— his upper arms were wet where tears had fallen.

“‘M sorry. Should’ve just listened to orders,” he whispered, almost ashamed, “should’ve— just been good, I s’pose.” 

“No— come on, don’t do that,” MacTavish replied, putting a hand to the back of his neck— “don’t say that.” 

His thumb made small arcs in the relatively unscarred skin of his neck; Ghost practically melted into the touch, another tear rolling down his cheek as his eyes closed. 

“You’ve been good,” MacTavish reassured him, “so good for me. Just breathe,” he said again, wiping at his eyes for him. “Done so well.”

“Course I’d tell you,” Ghost replied softly, breath warm against the outside of his thumb. He opened his eyes— devastatingly blue, MacTavish thought, somehow soft even when rimmed with pink and darkened eyelashes. “You wouldn’t—” he swallowed, like the words were choking themselves around his throat, “you wouldn’t— hurt me.”

And— oh.

He hadn’t expected those words out of anyone’s mouth directed towards him, far less from Ghost— Ghost, who had seen him wipe at the blood sprayed on his forehead on the outside of his wrist and only successfully spreading it more, Ghost, who’d seen firsthand how dirty they had to get their hands to keep the world clean, Ghost who had to be able to feel all the calluses and all the scars under his hand—

“No,” he agreed, “never.”

Ghost nodded, confirming something; he smiled almost, hands coming tight around MacTavish again as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. The rain was still coming down, the perfume of petrichor thick in the air between them. 

“Starting to work,” Ghost murmured, and MacTavish ran another arc under his eye with his thumb, despite the fact there were no more tears. “The cream, I mean. And the painkillers.”

“You can’t work like this. You can’t— do this to yourself.” 

His cousin had died after a failure of those responsible for the maintenance of the base; a vehicle had crushed him. It was a quick death, or so his fellow soldiers had said— the official statement from the Army was that he was a family man who would be sorely missed, with nothing said of who was responsible. He carried the casket, and buried the idea that the Army was anything but exploitative with him; across from him now was an soldier who should have retired with his family and a sizeable pension, kept safe from the reality of their job. Ghost’s expression was almost careful, watching him, but softened simply by virtue of being in his hand; MacTavish gave his hand a little squeeze, and Ghost nodded. 

“Alright. Okay.”

“Good lad. You haven’t had breakfast, have you?” 

“No, sir.”

“Stay here, change into something more comfortable if you want to. I’ll be back.”

“‘Ll stay here,” Ghost promised, an echo from earlier, a lazy salute to drive the point home. 

MacTavish wiped the hair on his forehead back again, touch soft, and Ghost gave his hand another little squeeze.