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In his defence, Ghost was as quiet as he could be when he jackknifed awake.
The stupid part was that after everything, he couldn’t even remember the nightmare. Time blurred the memories, scratched the details away like damaged film; he recognised the shadows in the corner of his vision, the loud, screaming voices, burning of water in his lungs and the nails squeezing into the back of his neck as it pushed him down again and again and again. There was a cold blade against the soft skin of his stomach, a low voice threatening to really bleed him dry— and it was a nightmare, he knew it was a nightmare, so he had no excuse for the way his heart was pounding frantically in his throat, the way panic stole all the breath from his chest, the way he scrambled awake gasping for air like he was suffocating, like the air had disappeared from his chest, like he was still being drowned—
In his defence, he really did try to be as quiet as he could, choking and gasping as he shot awake. He’d kicked off the blanket and the thermal layers somewhere in the night, and they were pooled around his lap; he was simultaneously hot and cold, sweat sticking to his skin and his nose cold in the tent where he’d slept without the mask. His chest was rising and falling nearly painfully; the paraffin lamp they were using was on its lowest setting, and while it provided enough heat to keep warm, it wasn’t comfortable— he watched the flame as it flickered lowly in the draught coming in from the tent flap, the silence outside enough to know the snow was still falling.
Ghost took a long, shuddering breath out.
The snow was still falling— the paraffin lamp, turned to its lowest setting, was still burning, hissing softly, and Ghost barely relaxed, elbows resting on his knees as he forced his breathing to slow. They were still in the tent, still on the Arctic exposure course— Ghost was still with Soap, fast asleep in the tent beside him.
Or, at least, he was supposed to be.
“Ghost?”
He started at the sound, eyes snapping over.
The tent was only small— close enough that when Ghost looked over, MacTavish was within arms reach, eyes tired but open and fixed on him. He’d managed to keep his layers on in the night, a thick jumper despite the fact they were sleeping and layers of state of the art blankets and a sleeping bag. Ghost looked over him, swallowing, before he wiped his cheeks on the insides of his wrists, looking away—
“Sorry—,” he whispered, “sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” MacTavish replied easily; he sat up to watch, propping himself up on an elbow. “‘S too cold.”
“Yeah?”
“You alright?”
The Arctic exposure course was just that— a course to keep up with the most up to date protocols on missions in sub zero temperatures. There was no threat, no danger, and they were days ahead of where they were projected to be on their route to the LZ site. Their tent was split in two, so that their snow caked-gear stayed in one half of the tent, and they slept behind the zipped off side; the wind howled quietly outside, and another draught blew in through the gaps in the material.
“Yeah,” Ghost replied, still catching his breath. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“I know you’ll be fine,” MacTavish replied, and a soft note of amusement entered his voice— out of the corner of his eye, Ghost watched him lift a hand carefully, projecting his movements as he watched for his reaction. It came to rest between his shoulder blades, warm and heavy— “not what I asked, though, is it?”
He had to stifle the urge to lean into the contact, and maybe MacTavish noticed, because he let his hand run along the curve of his spine, grounding and gentle.
The snow swallowed all sound outside, so that silence blanketed over them— it was just them, miles away from anyone else.
“It’s cold,” he said by way of reply, listening to his own heart rate slow in his ears. He glanced over at MacTavish, who was still looking at him, and crossed his arms. “Bothers your knee.”
“What?”
“Your knee,” Ghost replied, more confused when MacTavish frowned— “you’ve been putting weight on the other one since we set off. You do it whenever it’s cold.”
“Been watching me, lieutenant?” MacTavish asked, lifting an eyebrow; Ghost blinked, but the corners of his lip were tilted up in amusement, and the hand on his back lifted to the back of his neck with something that he might have even called fondness.
“The normal amount, sir,” Ghost replied, smiling despite himself— he wiped at his face on the heel of his hand, before leaning forward into himself, resting crossed arms on his knees. “You always grumble about it when it snows on base.”
“I don’t grumble.”
“Like an old man,” Ghost pushed, smiling wider when MacTavish scowled, “like to imagine you with a pair of reading glasses and a rocking chair on your front lawn when I’m bored. Shaking your fist at the teenagers down the street.”
“Bloody hilarious,” MacTavish deadpanned, hand squeezing around the back of his neck— “now c’mere.”
“What?”
“I’m cold,” MacTavish replied, and he let go of Ghost to leave him cold as he unzipped his sleeping bag, “come here.”
Ghost blinked.
The fact he asked was embarrassing enough; in any other case, Ghost might have teased him about it— more embarrassing than that, though, was the fact it took Ghost all of thirty seconds to hurriedly kick off the rest of his blankets, wrestle his way out of his sleeping bag and clamber over to him.
“Not a word,” he snarled, when MacTavish’s amused chuff brushed against the shell of his ear as he settled in— warmth bloomed immediately through the contact as he settled into where MacTavish’s body had warmed the material.
“Didn’t say anything,” MacTavish replied, before leaning across him to zip them back up together; he got an arm around Ghost and sighed with near contentment as he pushed them together. “You always run so warm.”
“Treating me like a bloody hot water bottle,” he groused, as MacTavish snaked his arms around his waist. Through the thick fabrics of their jumpers, the contact was grounding, pressure enough to chase away the memory of the nightmare— unable to help himself, Ghost burrowed further into it, chasing the scent of the deodorant he always wore, something heavy and spiced.
Ghost didn’t think he was ever a particularly tactile person; even as a child, he wasn’t stupid enough to search for comfort from his parents after nightmares. MacTavish was always the more tactile person, pats on the shoulder or back, or casually pressing their legs together on transport or exfil— he’d changed him, for better or for worse, got him too used to being warm that he’d gotten into the bad habit of chasing it. Soap’s jumper had ridden up, to reveal a warm band of skin that Ghost could feel as they pressed together; without really thinking about what he was doing, Ghost pressed his hands to it.
“Fucking—,” MacTavish gasped, lurching away— “bleedin’ fuckin’ Christ, Ghost, why the fuck’re your hands so cold?”
They were zipped into the same sleeping bag, so when MacTavish lurched away, Ghost rolled with him— he snorted a laugh, caught off guard; MacTavish shoved him over, only succeeding in pressing them together further. MacTavish’s arm landed somewhere by Ghost’s head, their legs twisted together as he looked down at him; with an expression Ghost could only describe as vengeful, MacTavish pressed icy hands under Ghost’s hoodie, freezing cold against the warm skin of his sides—
“Bloody— fucking get off me,” Ghost spluttered incredulously, more so when MacTavish pressed his hands further— his brain felt like it short circuited under the contact, and he had a moment where he was suddenly unsure whether to twist towards or away to the contact; Soap laughed at Ghost’s expression, shoving him down as he seemed to remember to push back. His hands seared where they made contact, even where his they were cold; twisting back against him, the humour choked in Ghost’s throat, cloying as his hands pressed in, and he shoved back into his chest— “wait— wait— shit, get off of me—”
“Ghost—” he blinked, eyebrows suddenly furrowing—
“It— fuck,” Ghost hissed, honestly unsure of why his heart was pounding in his throat, or where the words were spilling from, “it— hurts, I—”
“It hurts?” MacTavish asked anxiously, humour dissipating in an instant; he was still over him, and in a second, his hands retracted, suddenly leaving Ghost cold— “what— where does it hurt? Why does it hurt?”
“What?” Ghost asked, blinking up at him— it felt like he could breathe once his hands had been lifted, but he was all at once aware of how close they were, chest to chest and trapped in the warmth of his sleeping bag; “what d’you mean?”
“You— said it hurt, Riley,” MacTavish replied, frowning down at him, “where does it hurt?”
His chest was still heaving where it didn’t need to be, skin far too warm— his mouth opened and closed, eyes wide as they looked up at MacTavish.
“It— it doesn’t hurt,” he replied, when his mouth finally caught up with his brain, “I didn’t mean— I—”
“Simon.”
“It just—,” Ghost managed, unable to meet his eye— he could see the searching way MacTavish was looking at him, and squeezed his eyes shut, “it just— hurts. It’s not— it’s not painful, or anything, it’s— it’s…”
“Sensitive.”
“What?”
“You’re just— it’s just sensitive,” MacTavish replied, but he wasn’t teasing— his eyes were soft, fixed on him, “that right?”
Ghost met his eye, suddenly unable to bear the weight of his gaze.
It was embarrassing, quite frankly; he’d survived torture, survived electrocution and waterboarding, but the smallest bit of skin contact had him squirming like an insect in a pair of forceps.
“It’s not— sore,” he explained, “it doesn’t matter where, it just— where your hands are, it just— hurts.”
It was just them, in the deafening silence of the place, together in the sweltering heat of the sleeping bag. The snow was still falling, the paraffin lamp still hissing softly; carefully, like Ghost would skitter away if he was too fast, he rested a hand over his face, thumb resting under his eye— his hand was warm, scorchingly so.
“Does— does that hurt?” He asked softly, looking down at him for his reaction; swallowing, Ghost shook his head. MacTavish nodded, and his hand carefully trailed down to the hem of his hoodie, touch featherlight and unhesitatingly soft even as Ghost tensed under him. His hand pressed around his waist, and Ghost had to wrap a hand around Soap’s wrist to keep himself from pushing him away, breath suddenly catching—
“Does that— does this—?”
“No,” Ghost replied quickly, suddenly too afraid to lose the closeness, “I mean— yes, no, it doesn’t— hurt, I don’t know—”
“Relax.”
His heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest, and Ghost was acutely aware that if MacTavish came any closer, he’d be able to feel it— his other hand came to circle his waist, and he wasn’t quite able to stifle the hiss through his teeth, like he was expecting it to hurt.
“Relax,” MacTavish said again, voice softening when Ghost tensed as he splayed his fingers with something that almost felt like possessiveness, and a brief image of his hands leaving marks like tattoos flashed across his mind; his heart thrashed like a caged animal in his chest, and he wasn’t sure of it was fear or something else— “breathe— breathe for us, you’re alright.”
Ghost wasn’t a tactile person— hadn’t been since he was a child, never stupid enough to seek comfort in contact that always, always ended in bruises— so he had no excuse for the way he reached into the touch, back arching as he got his arms around his neck to push them together. Soap’s hand lifted to brush up his spine, and he had to bury his face in his neck to hide the sharp intake of breath, squeezing his eyes shut—
“You’re okay,” MacTavish soothed, breath whispering against skin, “you’re alright. I’m not hurtin’ you.”
Not trusting his voice, Ghost nodded. MacTavish brushed a hand over the back of his head before returning it under his hoodie, shushing him quietly when his breathing caught in his chest. He manhandled them both into something more comfortable, Ghost by his side and snugly pressed against him; his hands didn’t hesitate where they warmed themselves over gnarled, scarred skin, and Ghost had to bite back the short sound that threatened to rip out of his throat.
It was like the opposite of the nightmare— overwhelmingly warm, soft, safe, to the point where Ghost had to wrestle with the urge to crawl his way out into the biting cold strictly in the name of familiarity.
The memory of the nightmare returned without warning. The details always got lost in the dark, but the ache of it remained, phantom touches slithering over clammy skin, grabbing, touching, dirty nails digging into exhausted muscle— he winced away from the thought of it, pressing closer like he’d wash the sensation off his skin if he could just crawl into his chest.
“Alright?” MacTavish asked quietly, into his hair— Ghost swallowed again, nodding.
“I’m okay. It doesn’t—,” he hesitated, letting his eyes close, “this doesn’t hurt.”
“It’s not s’posed to,” MacTavish huffed, readjusting his hand carefully between his shoulder blades. “Did you know you have freckles?”
“Hm?”
“On the back of your neck,” MacTavish explained, letting his hand brush over them— “bet they go down to your back, too.”
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t change the fact he had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper when he brushed his hand heavily over the back of his neck again. He forced his breathing even, listening to MacTavish’s steady breaths— in the dark of the night, Ghost pressed his forehead in the scruff of his beard, warming his nose in the curve of his neck.
“Sorry,” he murmured eventually; mercifully, MacTavish’s hands had stopped moving, so that he could begin to relax.
“What’re you sorry for? You’re doing me a favour, aren’t you? Getting me nice and warm.”
“Yeah,” Ghost huffed, smiling against the pulse point of his neck, “because that’s why we're doing this.”
His hands were still resting around his waist, and even where he couldn’t see his expression, he could almost imagine the miniscule pause, the way his eyebrows would knit and the way he’d blink—
“What d’you mean?”
“What do I— mean?” Ghost echoed, confused; MacTavish shifted back to look down at him, eyebrows furrowing—
“We’re doing this because I was cold,” MacTavish said slowly, hands shifting a little restlessly— “why did you think?”
Truthfully, Ghost didn’t know what answer he wanted, or why, despite that, it felt like his heart was sinking to the bottom of his chest as he watched his expression. He unstuck his tongue, mouth suddenly dry.
“We’re doing this,” he began, voice sticking around the catch in his throat, “because you’re cold, sir.”
“Yeah. Good,” MacTavish replied, sighing with something that might have been relief— Ghost couldn’t even begin to decipher it, and chose the distraction that was his hands readjusting over his waist— “that’s right, good lad.”
He wasn’t disappointed. The whole idea of being disappointed was preposterous; it was practical, strictly tactical— when Ghost settled a little further away than where he had been, MacTavish pulled them back flush, pressing him back into the overwhelming scent of his deodorant.
It hurt worse, somehow, when his hands snaked their way up his back, keeping him pressed against his chest where he warmed them against him. At the very least, he was quiet about it, biting the inside of his cheek enough to bleed to stifle the choked off gasp when MacTavish let a hand drag from the nape of his neck to the small of his back and balling his hands into fists when he couldn’t bear the sensation of Soap’s skin anymore.
“You okay?” MacTavish asked, when Ghost shifted restlessly as he raked his nails over the raised scars over his back. Tactical, he reminded himself, eyes squeezing shut— practical, when MacTavish lifted a hand to cup his face, lifting his head a little to get his attention—
“Simon?”
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?”
It shouldn’t have been so difficult to be touched. It shouldn’t have made him shudder, or twist, or want to crawl out of his skin— and he had no reason to want it like that either, despite everything, lean into it even where it seared and burned and scorched.
MacTavish was watching his expression with that same searching expression again, and when he didn’t say anything, brushed all the hair back from his forehead, eyes softening.
“C’mon, darling,” he murmured, and shook his face gently to earn a reaction; when Ghost’s eyebrows knitted together, he pushed the pad of his thumb into the furrow of his eyebrows. “Gonna talk to me, sweetheart?”
“Are you doing that because of the cold, too?”
The words spilled out before he could think to stop them; where it was steadily trailing down his spine, MacTavish’s other hand paused. Ghost hesitated at his own words, heartbeat suddenly picking up as he scrambled to take it back—
“I— I didn’t mean that.”
“Ghost—”
“It’s just the— nightmare,” he replied, “I’m— I’m fine, I didn’t mean that—”
“Okay— okay,” MacTavish cut across him as Ghost got increasingly more panicked, “okay, it was just the nightmare— Simon, it’s okay—”
Tactical— tactical, when he pushed him back down to his chest and smoothed a hand through his hair, tactical, when he found the scar from the meat hook under his palm and brushed a thumb across the scarred skin, mumbling praise when Ghost shivered under it, tactical when Ghost hid his face in his chest, burying the embarrassment flooding his cheeks like a secret—
“You’re okay, dove,” MacTavish soothed, and he was drawing lines into the back of his neck with his fingertip— connecting freckles, Ghost realised, that he’d never even seen on himself, “c’mon now, sweetheart, it was just a nightmare— I’ve got you, now, nothing’s goin’ to hurt you, nothing’ll come near you—”
The pet names should have made him cringe. The soft touches and softer tone should have made him flinch, and the fact Ghost was like this, vulnerable and exposed should have made him recoil—
“You’ve got me?” He asked quietly, looking up at him— MacTavish paused, before his hands tightened around him defensively.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got you.”
Tactical, tactical, tactical. The word was losing meaning the more he ran it through his head, over and over.
The wind wailed quietly, howling outside the tent; Ghost pressed himself closer, impossibly warm, like he could crawl into his skin.
“Sorry,” Ghost said again, wincing at the way MacTavish’s fingertips brushed over raised scars.
“What’re you sorry for?” He replied, pausing. Ghost hesitated, blinking around the question—
“I don’t… know.”
“Hm,” MacTavish huffed softly, “you’re alright, gorgeous.”
The small sound it shocked out of him was undignified at best— MacTavish pressed them together affectionately, a smile sharp in Ghost’s hair.
“You like that one?”
“Like ‘em all,” he confessed, very quietly; and that was all there was to it, nothing but the sleeping bag they were both pressed into and the soft, whispered words and the smooth arc of hands down from his shoulder blades down across his sides, calloused palms over scarred skin.
“Okay,” MacTavish breathed easily, voice quiet. “Alright, sweetheart.”
It would stop, of course— as soon as MacTavish warmed up, as soon as the nightmare was forgotten and they were back on the route, trudging through knee deep snow; it had no reason to continue there, not until the next time either of them were cold, no reason to switch the paraffin lamp any higher when they could just warm skin against flinching skin.
They were just cold. It was just tactical.
“Simon— hey, c’mon, hey, what’s the matter?”
Just more practical to wipe tears on sleeves, rough cuffs of MacTavish’s jumper soaking them up; just more practical to share sleeping bags and apartments, all the better to be faster on the field— and really, he didn’t know what it was he wanted, had no idea what he was feeling so disappointed for, only that he was, and it was choking.
“Alright,” MacTavish soothed, voice so tender Ghost felt dizzy with it, felt sick, “alright, love, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
Neither of them said anything about the fact that when Ghost finally got his hand to settle on MacTavish’s waist under the jumper and stay there, it was shaking— the cold, or the nightmare, or whatever other excuse he could come up in the night with MacTavish’s beard brushing against his face or the sensation of soft, even breaths into his hair.