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“I’m not sayin’ the plans are shite,” MacTavish said, for what felt like the fifteenth time, “I’m sayin’ if the intel is outdated, I’m no’ goin’ to risk men on an op that’s takin’ them miles behind enemy lines!”
“If I could spare men for a recce mission,” Anderson snapped back, eyes narrow and shoulders tense, “I would. The fact of the matter is—”
“The fact o’ the matter is,” MacTavish immediately shot back, before taking a very forceful breath out. He swallowed down the snarky response in favour of counting back from ten and looking over to Ghost. The four of them were all hunched in the tent around the map spread over the table, successful ops marked with little red pins— MacTavish had both his palms flat on the table, Anderson across from him, arms crossed— the other lieutenant, a man who went by Aztec, stood with narrow green eyes that carefully followed whoever spoke, and chewed on his lip idly— Soap caught Ghost’s eye last where he stood, one hip balanced on the table as his jaw worked under the mask. He shot MacTavish a look, clearly asking to voice what both of them were thinking, and he replied with a look clearly telling him not to. Ghost huffed a scoff, but complied; MacTavish raked a hand over his hair and over his beard, willing himself to keep his own temper before his accent became indecipherable. The sky was a darkening grey behind the blinds in the office they were using as a makeshift planning room on the garrison, otherwise quiet; it was a small room, just enough space for the four of them and the table to fit comfortably.
“The fact of the matter is,” Soap said again, letting his arm fall to his side as he met Anderson’s eye, “we can’t risk the men we’ve got when the only LZ we have is twenty klicks from the base and the entire surrounding zone is hot.”
“We don’t know that,” Anderson replied, immediately dismissive— out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ghost’s eye twitch as he inhaled to say something, before meeting MacTavish’s eye again.
He never got why everyone insisted Ghost was so unmanageable. He could have had anything and everything to say in the moment, but he listened to the silent prompt to stay quiet like it was an order; arms tightening, he only exhaled sharply to let out the breath, looking away. Anderson’s eyes swivelled to Ghost’s— they narrowed minutely, flickering between him and MacTavish.
“Something to say, Riley?”
Ghost took a long, controlled breath, before glancing at MacTavish again; it wasn’t quite permission seeking, but there was something in his eyes that told him he’d stop if he’d ask. A little unconsciously, MacTavish stood up straight and stepped closer behind him; Ghost took it for what it was, immediately turning to glare at Anderson.
“I think we’ve already established the intel’s a load of bollocks, sir,” Ghost immediately shot off, like he had been waiting since the start to say it, “planning a high-risk op around it is fucking stupid at best.”
“Beg your fucking pardon, lieutenant?” Anderson replied immediately, grey eyebrows shooting up at the egregious insubordination.
“Fucking stupid,” Ghost repeated louder, like he had misheard him, “sir.”
Well, no one had ever accused Ghost of mincing his words.
Anderson was glaring deeply at him, uncrossing his arms to reach for the pocket where he knew he kept his cigarettes— he held himself off by curling his hands into angry fists by his sides. Aztec’s eyes reflected the grey sky when they flickered between them, and Anderson must have caught MacTavish looking at him, because he crossed his arms again before turning to him.
“Aztec. Go take five.”
“Sir—”
“Take five,” Anderson repeated; Aztec opened and closed his mouth, but did so, shutting the door behind him. It was a nice enough gesture— Anderson obviously didn’t want MacTavish’s perception of Aztec to be changed by whatever he was about to say, but it didn’t exactly give a good impression of what was about to happen next. Ghost’s expression hardened, and he stood up straight.
“You want to watch your fucking mouth,” Anderson spat lowly as soon as the lock clicked, eyes narrow and lips pulled back, “lieutenant.”
“200 guns don’t just disappear off of a bloody shipping manifest,” Ghost shot back, “either the first one we got was wrong, or this new one is, and either way, that calls the validity of both of them into question!”
“Luckily for us all, Ghost, you’re not tasked with planning this mission, else your input might’ve been valued—”
“You’re not fucking listening!”
“Ghost,” MacTavish cut in, as Ghost’s voice raised angrily— Ghost stopped short, exhaling harshly before he spoke again.
“The intel is wrong,” Ghost insisted, crossing his arms and bristling in the way MacTavish knew meant he wasn’t going to let go of the issue, “the captain’s been saying the same bloody thing to you for coming on two hours—”
“And I’ve taken that into consideration—”
“You’re not considering shit, sir, that’s the problem—”
“Stand down, Riley,” Anderson snarled, and Ghost flared, angrily uncrossing his arms to press his hands flat against the table and bear forward—
“You want to send soldiers to die to prove to the upper brass you saw a threat and did something about it,” Ghost spat, “how about you grow a fucking pair—”
“Riley—”
“—and tell the brass to wait for a recce mission, instead of sending them in on a suicide mission to make a point—!”
“Calm down,” MacTavish interrupted him again, only he pulled him back by the shoulder to do it. Ghost stumbled a step back and shook him off immediately with a sharp glare, but let him; Anderson watched the whole thing with a very sour expression, and finally seemed to give up the fight between him and a smoke, a cursory glance up at the ceiling for a smoke detector. Regardless, the cigarette was already between his lips, and the room was momentarily silent for the flick of his lighter— MacTavish used it to speak, keeping an eye on the venomous glare Ghost was throwing across the table.
“We know the intel is wrong,” he said, ignoring the way Anderson’s eyes narrowed, “we’re better off sending out a recce team, scope out the area and get out our own eyes on the field—”
“If we think this intel is wrong,” Anderson cut in, snatching the cigarette out of his mouth to speak, “we’re questioning every single bit of information we’ve received from this source in the past, good, solid intelligence that’s formed the basis of missions!”
“We can’t just send men on a gamble,” MacTavish replied, anger pulsing under his skin, “we all know intel changes—”
“You’d have us wait for these terrorists to test their arsenal while we’re busy running a recce mission?” Anderson snapped at him, smoke curling from his nose, “against us, against civilians?”
“We don’t know that’ll happen—”
“Just like we don’t know that a direct offensive will be unsuccessful—”
“We know the intel is inaccurate at best—”
“Do we? Do we know that?”
Both of them were interrupted by Ghost’s fist slamming into the table. MacTavish wasn’t stupid enough to risk grabbing Ghost back twice, but he seriously considered it, watching the caustic way Ghost was glaring up at Anderson.
“Are you fucking enjoying going around in bloody circles? The intel,” Ghost scoffed, “the intel is a heap of fucking shit, and you’re willing to send men to die over it— bloody get your head out of it and listen to what he’s telling you—”
“Ghost—”
“Fucking watch yourself, Riley,” Anderson spat, furious with rage— he turned to MacTavish, opting to ignore Ghost entirely— “the intel is from a source we’ve trusted previously, and we don’t have the time—”
Ghost slammed his fist into the table again, gesturing furiously at MacTavish—
“Listen to a word he’s saying, would you?!”
“And call off your fucking guard dog, John,” Anderson snarled, not even looking at Ghost to glare at MacTavish, “before someone puts him down.”
The temperature in the room cooled like liquid nitrogen. Ghost’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth like he was going to snap something back— but MacTavish was moving before could stop himself. It didn’t even occur to him that what he collided with was Ghost, hurriedly stepping in front of him and bodily blocking him from crossing the room to get to him—
“Get out of my way, Riley—”
“Fucking Christ, sir,” Ghost managed, shoving him back— it barely registered, as MacTavish glared daggers at Anderson, eyes locked on him like a predator on prey— he made to get past Ghost again, taking some vindictive delight in the way Anderson’s eyes widened and he took a step back—
“Calm down,” Ghost insisted, hands catching his arms to keep him back, “it’s fine, I don’t care—”
“I’m not going to do anything to him—”
“Stand down, sir,” Ghost hissed into his ear, fingers squeezing into his arms. Soap’s eyes snapped up to Anderson over Ghost, narrowing—
“You want to talk about putting my lieutenant down, Anderson?” MacTavish demanded, overloud, as Ghost pushed him back, “want to talk about laying a hand on my soldier—?”
“Fucking hell,” Anderson breathed, watching with wide eyes as MacTavish didn’t stop trying to get past Ghost— his lip curled with disgust, eyes narrow— “you two have got a fucking problem, d’you know that?”
He didn’t quite manage to get past Ghost when he turned, and he didn’t need to— Anderson ducked to avoid the flash of silver, but if Ghost had wanted, the knife would have hit him wherever he went. It slammed into the wall just left of his head would have been in a crumble of plaster, embedding into the wall; MacTavish pulled Ghost back before he realised what he was doing, wrapping an arm around him to pull his back against his chest. Anderson stood up straight, eyes wide and nearly apoplectic with rage— MacTavish could hear Ghost breathing hard, see where his eyes were boring venomously into Anderson’s.
“You’re not takin’ my men on a suicide mission to prove a point,” MacTavish said, arm tightening protectively around Ghost— “you’re sure as fuck not threatenin’ my lieutenant, either.”
The cigarette was burning, forgotten, between Anderson’s fingers— his eyes were wide, lips slightly parted. He scoffed, but it was weak, as if it was more to save face than anything; he dropped the cigarette to the floor and stamped it out there, crushing it under his heel.
“Fucking unbelievable, both of you,” he said finally, turning around. He looked at Ghost first, and then up at MacTavish— “have your fucking mission, do it yourself, I don’t give a fuck. You’ll pay for this,” he added, jabbing a finger towards Ghost.
“Yeah,” Ghost replied, the smirk audible as he leant back against MacTavish, like a cat staking a claim on a particular comfy cushion, “alright.”
Anderson bit back several words before he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him. Ghost huffed a laugh as he did, letting his head drop back against his shoulder.
The sun had set behind the curtain, the grey sky tinged with blue behind the blinds.
“Shouldn’t’ve done that, Ghost,” MacTavish muttered, but didn’t unwrap his arm.
“What’s he going to do, report me?” Ghost asked sarcastically, tilting his head so their faces were inches apart; the way they were, MacTavish could count each individual eyelash, the way his eyes were tilted up with humour. Shrugging carelessly, Ghost let go first, sauntering over to the knife in the wall.
“Besides,” Ghost added, ripping it out the wall and pointing the knife at him carelessly, “you shouldn’t’ve done that either.”
“You don’t like it when people call you that,” MacTavish replied, crossing his arms. “And he threatened you first.”
“I did tell him to grow a pair,” Ghost shrugged, not sounding particularly sorry about it; he walked over to stand opposite him around the table, “and I didn’t mind it that much.”
“You normally do,” MacTavish replied, lifting an eyebrow. Ghost shrugged again, seemingly busy with replacing the knife in its hidden holster around his belt. It was a surprisingly shy movement, and MacTavish tilted his head to catch his eye—
“I dunno,” Ghost replied, “it’s— it’s different. It’s you.”
The knife went back in its holster, and Ghost glanced over his shoulder to look at the hole he had left in the wall— he seemed more sorry about that than anything, before he looked back at MacTavish, eyes alight.
“Were you really going to attack Anderson for me?”
“Not for you,” MacTavish replied gruffly, ignoring the way Ghost only seemed to smile wider, “he was pissin’ me off for hours.”
“Coming to my rescue, right?” Ghost teased, only relenting when MacTavish glowered at him— “was worried you were going to burst a blood vessel by the end. Got so bad I thought I’d have to nip to the base library and get an English-Scottish dictionary.”
“Gaelic,” MacTavish corrected automatically, watching Ghost roll his eyes good-naturedly. “S’pose we’ll have to plan this mission ourselves, then?”
“We could get Aztec back in here. Poor bloke had some good ideas before Anderson steamrolled him.”
“No, leave it,” MacTavish replied, with a glance back down at the map, “it’s better when it’s just us.”
Ghost didn’t reply immediately, and for the first time in what felt like hours, it left him to actually critically consider the mission— they’d run several ops in the area, and MacTavish suspected they’d be able to roughly mark out the hot zone based on how successful the ops were— but the silence went on a little too long, and he looked back up to find Ghost positively beaming, eyes narrow and glinting in the light.
“If I didn’t know better,” he began, leaning forward, I'd say you’re getting a soft spot for me, sir—”
“Och, bile yer heid,” he replied defensively, even when they both knew it was true— “wee spooky bastard.”
Ghost laughed out loud at that, covering his mouth even over the mask— the sound rang like bells, bright and warm; MacTavish blinked before he recovered, grumbling something unintelligible and studiously ignoring the way Ghost had managed to completely reverse his mood in all of two minutes.
“Probably end up havin’ to rescue you from Aztec too,” he complained, as Ghost nudged into him to stand by his side so they could look at the map from the same side, “damsel that you are.”
“Fancy yourself a knight, sir?” Ghost replied, grinning, instead of bothering with the teasing— “they’d have to cut a hole in the helmet, get the mohawk to stick out.”
“What does that make you, a princess?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ghost agreed immediately, “with a skull mask, and the knives—”
“All those dresses you’ve got,” MacTavish continued sagely, “those pretty eyes—”
“Ha,” Ghost laughed dryly, kicking his boot to get him to stop. The high parts of his cheeks, visible around his eyes, were pinched pink; MacTavish grinned, but decided to spare him, crossing his arms. “Stop imagining me in a dress and let’s plan this. Want to get it done before dinner.”
“Chicken parm tonight. You hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
It was MacTavish’s turn to laugh, clasping Ghost’s shoulder affectionately— to his surprise, Ghost let him, letting him the few moments before he shrugged him off with what seemed to be muscle memory than anything.
“We’ve got the best vantage point from the south side,” Ghost began, leaning forward over the map to look at it, “and the forest cover, but I’m not seeing any buildings…”
His eyebrows furrowed when he concentrated, and whenever he had to illustrate something, he’d draw invisible lines on the map with the pads of his gloves— MacTavish watched as he snatched up the dossier with the satellite images and scowled at how grainy they were, complaining about something he wasn’t even listening to until—
“You just going to stand there, sir?”
“I’m listening,” he replied, “I’m listening. Go on.”
More of a housecat, if anything, Soap thought in the safe privacy of his head, the way Ghost was all sharp claws and sharper teeth until he got what he wanted.
Not that he minded, of course. And Ghost couldn’t have done either, because for all his complaining, he didn’t seem to mind so much when the plans pulled them both deep into the night, the skies inky black behind the blinds; he snuck them both plates from the kitchen into their office as Ghost typed up the mission plans, and they shared their tea by the dim light of MacTavish’s office lamps.