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“Fuckin’ spit it out, Riley,” MacTavish finally gritted out, rounding on Ghost. Behind the red tinted glasses, Ghost’s eyebrows lifted, as if he hadn’t expected him to notice him glancing over at him for what has to be the sixth time in the ten minutes since they’d left the APC. It was a five mile trek through the forest, Decker and Splinter right up ahead them; at the scrutiny, Ghost gave an unbothered sort of shrug.
“S’nothing.”
“You sure? You’re lookin’ over at me every thirty seconds for nothing?”
Ghost blinked again, barely visible behind the glasses. It was near evening, the sky towards the west glowing orange, and it reflected against the glasses and the deep grey of the rifle he held across his chest. The trees were deep and tall, glowing in orange and yellow hues.
“I’m sure,” Ghost replied neutrally.
He had to know— he had to know how much it was winding him up. Ahead of him, Decker gave a half turn, glancing over at Splinter with something like amusement until he caught MacTavish glaring.
“Radio check— radio check, Bravo team, come in?”
Scarecrow’s voice was crackly through the radio; Ghost lifted a hand to his receiver to reply.
“This is Bravo, read you loud and clear.”
Ghost glanced over at him again, eyebrows furrowing; MacTavish swore he was doing it on purpose—
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing!” Ghost replied defensively. “Just your vest strap, s’all.”
MacTavish glanced down; the strap to his bulletproof vest over his chest was twisting three or four times. He looked at it, and then glared up at Ghost.
“That was it, that’s what you’ve been botherin’ me about? My fuckin’ vest? Focus on the bloody mission, Ghost!”
“I am focusing! And it’s a hazard, sir, it’s distracting me.”
“Well, if you stop looking at it,” Decker pointed out very quietly.
“What’re you on about?” Scarecrow asked, where Decker’s terminal had apparently been on. He sighed, glancing between the two of them, before replying.
“Riley can’t focus because the captain’s vest is all twisted.”
A beat, and then:
“Isn’t it uncomfortable? His vest, I mean?”
“Thank you!” Ghost exclaimed into his own receiver. “Finally! It’s bloody uncomfortable, and it’s right in my eye line!”
“And you can’t just ignore it?”
“It’s a hazard to the mission, sir,” Ghost replied, frowning, “I can’t ignore it. It’s distracting. Look,” Ghost pointed at a root sticking out of the ground, “imagine if I just tripped over that root, because I was looking at your vest. Imagine. You’d have to carry me to the exfil point.”
“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t just leave you here to starve,” MacTavish muttered, scowling.
“You wound me,” Ghost replied, a hand on his chest.
“I’m fuckin’ close to it, yeah.”
Ghost grinned, looking ahead again. He couldn’t see the smile, but could see the way his eyes had flickered up into half moons, far too pleased with himself.
“How many klicks out are we?” Splinter asked Scarecrow. Shogun, his partner for the mission, replied instead.
“Four. Keep heading northbound.”
“So you’re not going to fix it?” Ghost asked, glancing over at him again.
“For fuck’s sake!” MacTavish grumbled, finally tugging at the strap of vest. “Like having a fuckin’ wife nagging at me all day long!”
“If anything,” Ghost snapped back, “you’re the wife.”
“Still don’t see why you couldn’t’ve just ignored it,” Decker replied, amused, looking ahead. MacTavish watched Ghost’s head swivel to him like a predator on prey.
“Just because you don’t give a fuck how you look,” Ghost retaliated, as Decker turned around, “scruff that you are.”
“Hey! I’m not taking advice on my appearance from someone who parades around in a skull mask!”
“Oh, Christ,” MacTavish muttered, looking skywards.
“Well, I’m not taking shit from someone who I watched spill coffee on their shirt and then wear it again three days in a row, coffee stains and all—”
“What’s the problem, do I not dress goth enough for you?” Decker demanded, throwing his arms up. “We don’t all go around in all black skulls all the time! And don’t lie to me, I’ve seen the fucking socks!”
“D’you think they’re just going to shoot us when they hear us?” Splinter asked very quietly into his radio.
“If you get lucky,” Shogun replied, tone curled with amusement.
“Sergeant,” MacTavish cut in, voice testing.
“Yes, sir,” Shogun replied, as Splinter gave a long suffering sigh. It was amusing to watch them bicker, more so then MacTavish would ever admit; however, it did have to come to an end.
“Decker.”
“—fucking ghost socks,” Decker concluded, with a glance over at him. “Ah— sorry, sir,” he added, a little sheepish.
“And I know you’d already been wearing that shirt for two days,” Ghost snapped back, “and I know for a fact you didn’t wash it—!”
“Ghost.”
“Sir,” Ghost acknowledged, before turning back to Decker with the same ferocity, “so don’t give me shit about my socks when you do that sort of shit. You’ve only washed your sweatshirt because the captain made you and I still know you’re over there—”
“Lieutenant,” MacTavish sighed, feeling far too tired for what was very early evening.
“Captain,” Ghost nodded, with a half glance over at him, before turning back to Decker with an accusatory finger—” “you’re over there with your—”
“Sweetheart,” MacTavish tried, rubbing at the spot between his eyebrows, “take a deep breath, yeah?”
“With your— uh— with— no— with, I mean—”
Ghost, at least, had the good sense to snap his mouth shut before any more verbal vomit spilled out. Ahead of them, Decker and Splinter both stopped walking to turn. The sun was hitting him just right to hide his eyes, but his expression was practically audible.
In the sudden silence, the forest seemed so much bigger. The four of them were quiet; Decker’s mouth was half open, almost impressed, and Splinter’s face was split with an incredulous grin. The quiet was only broken by the radio terminal opening, and the sudden sound of both Shogun and Scarecrow practically choking with how hard they were laughing.
“What was that?” Scarecrow cackled, practically besides himself.
“Is that all it took?” MacTavish asked, looking over at him. “Be a bit sweet on you, you finally start taking orders?”
“No—”
Shogun and Scarecrow were still laughing through the radios, Shogun practically howling— Ghost’s hand immediately came up to his receiver, already preparing to spit something out. MacTavish, curious, stepped forward to lift his glasses. Ghost immediately smacked his hand away, pushing them back on his face—
“You’re bright red, Riley.”
“Fuck off.”
“Come on,” Decker replied, grinning, “that’s not nice, sweetheart.”
Ghost unholstered a knife, glaring at him.
“Oh, no, it doesn’t work anymore!”
“It never worked,” Ghost replied, “just caught me off guard.”
“Maybe it’s the accent,” Scarecrow hypothesised. “Sir, d’you care to confirm?”
“I don’t. You two,” MacTavish replied, turning to them, “keep going.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ghost was still scowling as he stalked along; in his defence, MacTavish was a lot more comfortable once his vest had stopped being twisted against his shoulder. He gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder, and Ghost shot him a look that would have been contemptuous if not for the flush still creeping up his cheeks where they were visible around his eyes.
“Lighten up, love,” MacTavish told him, voice too quiet for anyone to overhear. He wasn’t smiling, but his voice was softer; Ghost looked over at him, jaw working under his mask like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Bringin’ us all down.”
“If anything,” Ghost said again, crossing his arms, “you’re the wife.”
“Whatever you want,” MacTavish shrugged. “Darling.”
“Piss off,” Ghost groaned, thumping into him. MacTavish quickly schooled the smile in his face into something more suitable for a mission; if Ghost was quieter for the rest of the mission, no one acknowledged it.