Chapter Text
The entire mission had been a shitshow from the very start, and it should have been aborted within the first hour, when they realized their initial enemy estimate had been severely underestimated. But the crew had taken a vote, and pride and valor had won in the face of plain, sensible logic. Ghost was, of course, forced to admit that he was among those that voted yes; none of the men in the 141 had said no. Laswell had objected, because she was perhaps the only one of them with any sense, but she had been soundly outvoted by cheerful crows, chuckles, and friendly shoulder shoves. John had grinned at him and lightly elbowed him in the tac vest. “Let’s send ‘em runnin’ home to their mams, eh LT?” No one had batted an eye at his casual touch of Ghost, nor at how Ghost’s only response was a rough chuckle and unseen grin.
And despite the obstacles, they had gotten the info and killed the three high priority targets.
They had also lost one young private Ghost had yet to learn the name of, and several of his people were badly injured, chief among them Johnny MacTavish. The Scotsman had spent a week in med, convalescing with three badly broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a severe bone bruise to his femur that the medics were shocked wasn’t a proper fracture, and very strict orders to “take it easy” for upwards of a month.
And the normally cheerful, devil-may-care when-out-of-combat Johnny had been so upset about that—rambling about seasons or something? And then the Scottish had become so thick no one really understood what he was saying, not even Price who could usually suss it out with a bit of work—that the medic had privately asked Simon to keep eyes on him to ensure he was behaving. As if Ghost had been doing anything but since his sergeant was released from the medbay. It hadn’t occurred to him until much later that the clever, older woman had never asked him to do anything of the sort, before.
They had become… close in their relatively brief time together, closer than Ghost would have preferred, but something that Simon silently cherished. Johnny was generous with touch, as easy with it as he was with words, which Ghost was not. The first few taps, touches, brushes, shoves, he had nearly flinched away from—Soap had nearly gotten punched when he, in his excitement, didn’t realize that Ghost had headphones on and didn’t hear him approaching for a shoulder grab. That had been months ago now, and Ghost was used to the younger man’s antics, daring to admit that he even enjoyed them, at least to himself.
Ghost rarely ate in the mess, finding the sound, the brightness and movement too distracting, never mind that he would have needed to remove his mask to eat properly. When he did, it was alone, save for the occasional ‘work’ meetings with Price. That had, of course, changed after Soap transferred to the 141, a fresh-faced young Sargent with a slightly crooked grin and absolutely zero fear of him. The younger soldier had just plopped down at his table one day after their first mission together, tray and all, while Ghost sat sipping a cup of hot tea before morning drills. He had chattered cheerfully while Ghost silently listened, fighting to cringe in disgust at seeing the amount of milk poured into the Scotsman’s tea. Simon’s mother had taken her tea that way, but he had always preferred it plain. One table visit became two, then three, and now the odds were, schedules willing, that if Ghost was in the mess, so was the sergeant.
Somehow John Mactavish had wormed into Ghost’s life, under his skin, and Ghost was far too weak to claw him back out. It was going to hurt when things finally crashed and burned.
Since the injuries from Hassan had forced Soap mostly into his room, Ghost had taken to bringing the man a tray at lunch. He hadn’t been asked, and the looks he got for carrying two trays through the halls were uncomfortable at best, but the surprised smile on Johnny’s face at his disgusting milk-tea cup made any scrutiny worth it. Once he was healed, the ritual stopped, and Simon found he missed the brief, more personal moments between the two of them. Soon after, an unlucky shot taken by Ghost on a brief firefight clearing out a few remaining Hassan agents left the Lieutenant in his own room healing from a mostly non-serious but definitely painful hole in his side, Soap had appeared with trays, his horrid tea, and a plain cup for Ghost. With this new injury, the ritual began again, and both men hardly seemed to notice.
So no, despite the light teasing from others (Price, and when protected by Price, Gaz) he had not been spying, or stalking, or snooping, or even “mother-henning” as Price would have called it Soap; he was just… looking out for his soldier. And the fact that he had come to check on the man for the fourth time that day—at 14:00 hours—had nothing to do with the nervous energy in his gut that became too strong to ignore after too long without any contact with the man, and everything to do with the fact that he had only just now gotten the chance to bring Soap a mug of tea, and schedules willing they always took tea at some point during the day. And schedules were important, damn it.
Ghost paused just outside Soap’s door, adjusting the two mugs in his hands so that he could raise a gloved hand to knock. But a voice stopped him just before his knuckles rapped against the cheap wood.
“Mam, c’mon, it’s not so bad.” Soap’s voice, tired, stressed, placating, filtered through. “We’ll figure it out! We done it before short-handed. It’ll be fine.”
Unease curled in Ghost’s belly as Soap paused, but he couldn’t hear anyone speaking back to the Sergeant. His mother? Why is he calling his mum on his phone? The 141 men and women were given a small batch of data for secured calls, but it was limited and meant to be used mostly for interpersonal contact or emergencies. Johnny’s family were farmers. Not especially well-off, since Johnny’s father had fucked off when he was younger and left his mum raising three children and a farm all on her lonesome. Johnny had mentioned sending money back to them, once. So, what could be so urgent?
“Mam, Mam I ken. But I’ll be right as rain by the time I’m out there, anyway! I’ll be shovin’ rams around an’ flippin’ ewes, no problem.”
Ghost blinked. Blinked again. Johnny had upcoming leave in a week, for two and a half weeks. He would absolutely not be ‘right as rain’ by the time he flew out, and the man knew that. Soap was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid. So what the hell had him so riled? He gave a single, sharp knock, and pushed open the door before the other man could grant or refuse him access.
Soap was sitting on his cot, wearing pants and boots, but shirtless. His bandages—meant to help brace his ribs—were on full display, pristine white and stark against the dark blue-green bruising teasing at the edges. The man’s mohawk was messy; he had been running his hand through it, a habit when he was stressed, and a bit of five o’clock shadow graced his strong jaw. At only twenty seven, the man’s body was already a museum of scars, old and new. Ghost’s eyes were drawn to the scar on his upper arm, from the day that Graves betrayed them all. It was a failure that Ghost still kept close to his chest even with the man a cold pile of ash and bone. But despite the scars—no, more so for having them—John MacTavish was a handsome man; he was well-built, broad shouldered and strong, muscled in a way that only came from consistent, real hard work. His full lips and faint underbite gave the impression that he was almost pouting, and his bright blue eyes almost always promised mischief. Dark hair dusted his chest, and a hint of dark hair trailed down into the waistline of his trousers.
Ghost dragged his eyes back up quickly to meet John’s eyes.
The man looked like he had been caught red-handed, phone in one calloused hand slightly pulled away from his ear. He stared at Ghost in surprise, before a noise at the phone—a female voice, but Ghost couldn’t quite make out the words—forced him to break eye contact. “No, no Mam I’m still here, jus’ uh. Give me a minute, please?”
The woman on the phone must have agreed, because Johnny looked back up to Ghost, and offered him a sheepish smile. “Uh, hey Ghost. Didnae expect to see you for a bit, yet.” His accent was thicker for having spoken to his mother. Then he spotted the mugs, and perked up like a damn puppy. “Is that fer me?”
Ghost resisted the urge to roll his eyes, stifling the warmth that settled in his ribs at the little smile the tea earned him. Fuck, but he would hurt people for that little tilt of Soap’s lips. He had certainly done worse for less. Simon ached to tell him so. “Who’re you telling lies to on the phone?” He said instead as he handed over the cup, louder than usual.
The desired result was immediate: Soap’s mother made a noise Ghost could only describe as “displeased” and began to rant in a language that he was pretty sure was not English. Johnny cringed as he pulled the phone away from his ear. The glare he gave Ghost might have killed a lesser man. It just made Ghost smile beneath his mask. “Ma’- Mam that’s not- well what else am I supposed t’ do? I c’n see if I can hire a spare hand to help from the village, but so late in th’ season-“
“I’ll help.”
Johnny stopped, eyes widening a fraction as he looked back up at the man, and Ghost realized that he had said that out loud. “Ghost- what?”
This was a bad idea, sang in Ghost’s head, but Simon seemed not to care, and kept speaking anyway. “I’ll help. Got leave Price’s been hassling me to take. If you’ll have me, anyway.”
Johnny looked at him like he had gone mad, and Ghost resisted the urge to fidget. Few people could throw Ghost off his game the way the Sergeant did, but the surprise on the man’s face did something to his stomach that he decided not to think about. “I- uh. You sure, LT? It’s a lot of work,”
Mother MacTavish said something again, and Johnny pulled his phone back to his ear, still watching Ghost as if waiting for him to deliver the punchline of one of his terrible jokes. “Yeah, I’m still here, sorry Mam. I, uh, might have a helper. Would it be alright t’ have my uh, Lieutenant come help?”
More chatter. Johnny’s mother sounded… loud. But Johnny grinned. “A-aye, that one, Mam. Aye, alright Mam, we’ll see ya then. Get th’ guest room up?” The response was distinctly scolding, and Johnny bit his lip to suppress another smile. “Aye, love ya too. Tell the girls hi for me, aye?”
When the call ended, Johnny set the phone down on the cot beside him and looked at the masked man still standing awkwardly in his room. And he smirked. “So, LT. You ever worked with sheep?”
Oh yes. He had made a terrible mistake.
--
To say that Price had been confused by Ghost’s sudden request was an understatement, at least until he had learned why the man who had not voluntarily taken a day off in years was suddenly all but demanding nearly a month away from what he had repeatedly referred to as his life’s work. Then the Captain had just sort of given a small smile, lit a cigar indoors—against policy, but who the fuck was going to stop him? Certainly not Ghost—and signed the proper forms. “Alright lad,” he’d said. “Be good.” Which was even stranger.
And then he was being dragged through the airport—a medical mask and ball cap hastily slipped on since civilian aircraft typically disapproved of full masks, whether the skull was painted on or not—by an enthusiastic Johnny, who was probably not meant to be moving so much or so quickly. He still felt terribly exposed, and feeling so much cold air against his bared skin was a lot when combined with the sheer level of noise in the busy building, but the earbuds helped to muffle some of the buzz of humans. Johnny’s hand, too, was grounding, and Simon found the callouses and scars grounding when pressed against his own.
He did not like civilian airports, or really any air travel at all, But Johnny apparently was used to civilian travel for some reason and happily led the way. Johnny urged him into a window seat because apparently he was concerned that he might stab someone with a bit of plastic cutlery for suddenly jostling him if he was in a middle seat, which was… fair actually. But despite barely fitting between Simon’s massive shoulders and an absolutely diminutive old woman, Johnny had apparently no concern for his own comfort. Simon actually had to twist to give him more room when he noticed the slight pinch in his expression, and he pretended not to see the way Johnny’s shoulders relaxed ever-so-slightly.
But pain aside, the ever-positive John MacTavish spent most of the flight cheerfully chattering with the old woman next to him in a horrific amalgamation of Gaelic and English. At one point she leaned forward to smile sweetly at Simon, who blinked at her in his best attempt to look less murderous than usual. Then she looked back at Johnny and gave the younger man a wide smile. She said something in a conspiratorial tone, leaning up as best she could to whisper to him, as if Simon might somehow hear and understand her. Johnny, mid-sip of a bottle of water, nearly choked on it, and the sudden jolt to his ribs forced him to take a moment to recenter. To his credit, he made it look more like embarrassment or discomfort from aspirating than pain, but the sudden grip on Simon’s bare hand was nearly crushing. The old woman looked at him with some concern, and Johnny quickly shook his head and managed a short, quick laugh for her benefit, which must have also hurt. He replied to her teasing with a wry smile, but he was red from his ears down to his throat, giving Simon a brief glance before ducking away from his gaze. Simon allowed himself to enjoy the pink flush while wondering just what on earth the woman had said that embarrassed him so badly. Whatever it was, the woman’s chattering gentled, and Johnny quickly relaxed as his ribs’ aching eased.
The trip to baggage claim was brief, thank fuck, and there was only a scuffle over their duffle bags for a few seconds before Simon snagged them both and started for the “rental/shuttle” area according to the signs. Johnny decided to choose his battles and let Simon have this one, for which the Lieutenant was grateful; by the time they were stepping out into the warm air of early spring, he could fear the faintest rasp to Johnny’s breathing and a tiny limp to his leg that he was valiantly attempting to hide. For all his bluster, Johnny was still injured, and tired from walking and sitting and breathing. Most probably wouldn’t have even noticed it, but to Simon both were blaring red flags, and he might have maybe been a tiny bit snippier than necessary to the young woman handling the car they’d rented. She of course was not willing to show fear in the face of a strange British man, but there was a clear flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that some part of him was glad for. Even without his mask, he was still Ghost, at least until Johnny reached up to rest a forearm on his shoulder and leaned on him with a cheerful “Dunnae mind ‘im! He’s ‘ad a long day dealin’ wit’ me.”
And just like that the woman relaxed, and Johnny adamantly refused to let him drive. “My right leg is fine, ya numpty!” he scolded as Simon tossed their bags into the backseat of the little sedan. “An’ I am not lettin’ you drive a rental!”
“I paid for the thing, Johnny,” Simon said dryly, holding the keys hostage as Johnny glowered at him.
“Aye and you’ll end up payin’ for a lot more if you try drivin’ on the roads we’re gonna be takin’! You tellin’ me you know how ta get from Inverness ta th’ south of Portree?” Johnny started to cross his arms before thinking better of it and instead propping his hands on his hips. It was probably meant to be intimidating, but all it really did was distract Simon with the way it defined the muscles on display in his short sleeves.
Dragging his eyes back up, he found the tiniest hint of pink on Johnny’s cheeks. Shit, he’d been spotted. And worse, he knew the man was right; he was the native of this country, after all, and had apparently made this trek several times previous. …Still. “GPS, MacTavish.”
That actually made the man snort—then flinch—and point a finger accusingly at Simon. “You are actually takin’ the piss right now!”
“Absolutely,” Simon said immediately, and handed over the keys. “C’mon, Johnny. Let’s go home, then.” He had meant it as a joke, nothing more than another bit of their constant banter, but the words choked up in his head as soon as he’d said them, and Johnny seemed surprised, too.
Then he smiled, warm and wide and honest, and the choking dropped right around his heart.
Fuck but this was going to be a mistake.
--
Simon had expected Johnny to chatter almost nonstop during the drive, but he was surprisingly quiet as they wound through the countryside of the Scottish Highlands and into the Isle of Skye, which even Simon, who had been to nearly every continent and more countries than he could count, was forced to admit was beautiful. When Simon glanced toward the man, he found Johnny quickly glancing away from him, back toward the road. “Fair warnin’ about my folks,” he said when they were about ten minutes out, according to Simon’s GPS. “Mam an’ the sisters c’n be… loud.”
“MacTavishes? Loud? I’d never have guessed.” Simon couldn’t quite suppress his smirk, and Johnny chuckled and smacked at him with one hand. “Hands on the wheel, Sergeant,” he added, which only earned him another, harder smack that he delighted in.
“Away n’ bile yer ‘ead, Simon. But I mean it. They’re loud, but they’re good people. They’re probably goin ta’ try to hug ya, or shake your hand or somethin’ without thinkin’ about it, so try not t’ stab them, aye?”
Simon tilted his head slightly, not used to hearing his real name outside of their few bunk meals together, when rank mattered less than comfort and familiarity. He found he didn’t hate it. “I’ll keep th’ knives in the dufflebag, Johnny, cross my heart.”
“Pff as if you needed knives fer stabbing.” Johnny grinned at him. “But yeah. Youngest is Aisla, she’s 16 this year, now. Callie is the oldest, think she’s 29 now. Mam is Janet, an’ I ain’ tellin’ ya how old she is, you can find that out yerself!” He chuckled, minding his ribs slightly, and Simon huffed a soft laugh himself. “Oh! An’ of course there’s Molly! Have to introduce you to her, too, but I’m sure she’ll like you fine.”
“Aisla, Callie, Janet, and Molly, then.” The thought of meeting the four most important women in Johnny’s life gave Simon more anxiety than he would like to admit; he had never been good with people, even long before he became the Ghost, and he imagined that, like on the plane, the language barrier would only make things rougher.
The road became a rough, unpaved path that could have only barely supported two cars passing one another, or maybe a single tractor if they were careful. Johnny drove on them in a way that Simon wouldn’t have necessarily called ‘safe,” but he was the last man to be complaining about driving, so he stayed quiet and ducked his head to keep from smacking the ceiling with every bump. But Johnny seemed only to speed up the closer they got to “home,” and by the time Simon caught sight of woolly white puffs of sheep among the green grass, the big man had clutched the overhead strap for dear life.
They turned finally onto a worn, narrow path with old cobblestone on either side. “’Ere we are.”
The path sloped upward onto a hill, surrounded on either side by fenced field. Little groups of white sheep with black faces dotted the landscapes, with a few other colors dotted here and there. At the crest of the hill was a house, made primarily of stone and wood. It looked old, but the place was clearly remodeled and well-loved. Its windows looked new, and the roof seemed recently redone as well. In the left field was a small, absolutely ancient barn that Simon wasn’t even sure should have been standing, and it seemed largely unused, but beside it was a newer metal structure that seemed to be its replacement. To the right of the house was a more impressive barn that was also metal, and several sheep were scattered around it as they grazed. Several lifted their heads to watch their approach, but all bit a few quickly dropped back to the grass. Most of them, Simon noticed, looked very, very fat.
“The white and black ewes are blackface sheep. Mamas to be, suffolk daddies this season on the right. On the other side is our purebreds with the blackface daddies. Also the few hebirdeen and the boraey are over there, but we’ll probably be pulling them out to the pens once we get a chance.” Johnny spoke cheerfully, as if anything that he had just said made any sense what-so-ever. “We got a very good Boraey ram, and ewes too. Breeders’ societies get all excited about ‘em durin’ breedin’ season, got a waitlist and everythin’.”
“That’s a… species of sheep?” Simon offered lamely as the car slowed to a stop alongside an old pickup truck. With the loss of the engine noise, the anxiety ratcheted up to ten.
Johnny just snickered, and nodded. “Yeah, LT. They’re a sorta rare species. Cute little dafties, too.” His door swung open and he all but hopped out of the car, leaving Simon to scramble out after him to make sure Johnny didn’t reach their luggage before he could. Simon snagged it just in time, and he earned a dirty look from the smaller man, which he pointedly ignored at the sound of a door opening.
The front door creaked as it opened to reveal a woman, and Simon couldn’t help but pause at the sight of her.
Janet MacTavish was… Smaller, than Simon had expected. The woman couldn’t have been more than five foot four, and her gray-streaked brown hair was tied in a high, tight bun that hid its length from him. she wore a plain outfit of jeans and a bright button-up shirt, and it looked like she was wearing a bit of makeup at her eyes and lips. Her skin was freckled and tanned, with heavy crows’ feet and smile lines on a pretty face that was shockingly like Johnny’s. She had the same faint pout, and the set of their eyes was the same, color and all. She threw her arms out wide with a joyful cry of something Simon could not even begin to translate and all but skipped down the steps to meet Johnny.
He laughed and bent to meet her, wrapping his massive arms around her slender frame in a firm squeeze. Simon got the impression that he wanted to scoop her up and spin her around, and he was glad at the man managed to refrain. Janet’s hug was tight, but it was carefully below his ribs. “’Lo Mam. You got shorter again!”
“Oh hush yer mouth, John MacTavish,” his mother scoffed, pulling back so that she could take him by the cheeks and look him in the face. “Ye look terrible!”
“Oh aye, thanks,” Johnny deadpanned, even if Simon found that he couldn’t quite help but agree. “I’m fine, Mam, ‘s just a scratch.”
Janet snorted again, releasing him with a sharp pinch to the cheek that made the man wince, and as her son straightened she turned her attention to Simon, who was still standing beside the car, two duffle bags slung over his shoulders. She squared her shoulders, setting her hands on her hips, and frowned at him. “And you then! Where were you while my boy was off getting himself blown t’ bits, eh?”