Chapter Text
He sits hunched over the table, a damp rag in one hand and the sleeve of the sweater clutched in the other. It’s spread out across the desk to keep it free from any unnecessary wrinkles. The neckline has been stretched out until it hangs loose. The tag is worn down to where the brand name is illegible. The cuff of the right sleeve is soft and warm between his fingers and imbued with water where Riley scrubs at it to get the coffee stain most of the way out.
It has been through the wash several times. The dark green colour has faded in the sun from when he used it as a makeshift curtain. There’s a thread dangling from the left sleeve that Riley cut through with a small needle. Now the only thing it’s missing is the coffee stain. Only a small splatter over the right cuff, not entirely washed out so it’s a faded brown against the green, and on the bottom side where no one would even notice it. Riley has it down to perfection.
Yet when he sits back upright and studies the whole of the sweater in the yellow light of his desk lamp, it’s not right. It’s not perfect. It’s not what he needs. When he brings it up to his face and inhales deeply, it feels hollow.
He used the same standard laundry detergent. The same body wash. The same conditions are in his wardrobe where he let the sweater sit.
But it’s not perfect. It’s missing something. His chest hurts with it. A yearning that turns into a physical pull yet no matter how harshly he presses his nose into the fabric of the sweater, fibres scratching his face, fabric pulled taut where his fingers curl into it, it’s not right.
He could cry. He could scream. He could punch a hole through this fucking desk. He could rip this stupid fucking sweater to pieces for not being fucking perfect.
Riley forces himself to let go, calmly.
It’s the exact replica of the original. The only way to get that missing scent into it is to exchange them.
He can’t help the desperate breath in as he makes himself let go of it. Can’t help the bone-deep disappointment when he smooths it out again. The wrinkles are all planned, methodical, measured out to perfection, so he folds it up nice and loose not to disturb his previous work. He sets the damp rag away on the corner of the table where his attention catches.
The bandages are neatly rolled up and sit safely on the far corner of his desk where they won’t be disturbed by his movements and won’t deteriorate in sunlight but where he can admire the colour in them when he’s laying down in bed.
It ruins the integrity of them, he knows, yet he can’t help himself. The bandages unroll long enough to span nearly the entirety of the room. He has enough length to work with. Enough to spare just a centimetre. The frantic shaking in his chest needs to be soothed.
He has the beginning of it unrolled in seconds. It smells like damp and gauze, because nothing medical ever smells nice. But a bit farther down is the first red spot, spread from edge to edge, white fabric entirely imbued in it.
Riley presses his tongue to it.
This entire roll of bandages has been wrapped around MacTavish’s thigh. Up high to cover where the nick of a knife struck an artery. Pulled tight until his skin blanched at the pressure. They bled through completely. They were still warm when Riley first touched them. They left his fingers stained red.
The blood is dried and coagulated now, but if he wets it with his tongue, he can taste it. Sweet, metallic, tangy. He presses the flat of his tongue on the edge and licks up. Slowly, carefully, to savour every molecule that’s imbued into the fibres. He can taste every single one as his tongue drags over it.
A shiver races up his spine. His hands are still trembling. The taste sits on his tongue, remains at the roof of his mouth, lingers on his lips. When he swallows, he feels it travelling down his pharynx, the oesophagus, down into his stomach. It’ll be imbued into his bloodstream next. Just a little bit to sate him. A tiny taste to keep him sane. It settles warmly in his belly.
Just as carefully, he wraps the bandages up again and sets them back in their place exactly as it was. He has a mission. By the end of it he’ll have another item added to his collection. Despite the excited beating of his heart, his hands remain still as he grabs the sweater.
It’s almost the right hour for this. Long enough after dinner where few soldiers are still coming from the mess hall, late enough that MacTavish should be back to his office to keep diligently overworking. If he’s quick – which he will be – then it won’t take more than a moment and he’ll be barely a blur in the hallway as he follows the path he knows by heart.
It’s cutting a corner that has Riley bumping right into a solid chest.
“Alright?” A hand steadies him by the shoulder. Riley’s breath catches in his throat. He shoves his hand holding the sweater behind his back and squares his shoulders to hide it.
“I’m fine.” He nods quickly. MacTavish’s eyes linger on him. It would have been safer to do this slightly later, would’ve been surer if he did his due diligence and checked that MacTavish had been occupied in his office. But he’s impatient for this. He’s been planning for so long. MacTavish frowning down at him can’t stop him now.
“You’re in a hurry?” Riley asks to redirect.
MacTavish grunts, a sound that’s between an affirmative and a huff of frustration. “Got more paperwork to do.”
“More than the usual?”
MacTavish’s face twists into a grimace. He looks away, and Riley follows the tantalising shift of his mouth as he presses his lips tightly together. “Aye, more than usual. Lost my fucking tags somehow.”
Riley straightens, eyes snapping up. He covers the twitch of his hand by clenching his fist. He feels his face doing something, and it must be something bad, because MacTavish’s attention returns fully to him. His gaze meets Riley’s eyes before it drops to his hands. Riley sets both behind his back. Stands almost in parade rest.
“It’s nothing.” His voice comes out a breath too thready. MacTavish’s eyes feel burning on him. He still tastes the sweet coppery tang at the back of his mouth. If he bit down with his teeth on that dry spot on MacTavish’s bottom lip, he could have it for real. He’d swallow the patch of skin that would peel away. He’d keep sucking on it until the wound closes. He needs to redirect again.
“You should get new tags soon, huh.” He nods in MacTavish’s direction, eyes locked on his neck. Empty where the chain should be. The artery pulsing in his throat stands out when he tilts his head just so to the side to peer at Riley. The angle of the light makes his beard seem darker. It accentuates the lines on his forehead.
“I should,” MacTavish says instead of the reason he’s looking at Riley like that, like he’s considering him. But then MacTavish gives a nod and steps to the side to walk around him. “And you should get some food. I didn’t see you at dinner.”
“I will.” The smile must be audible in Riley’s tone, but MacTavish doesn’t stop to mention it. For a moment, Riley forgets all about hiding the sweater, swivelling instead to watch MacTavish walk down the hallway – the steady set of his shoulder, the sure step of his feet, the perfect line of his posture – until he turns the corner towards the offices.
He feels like floating the rest of the way. High off the knowledge that MacTavish was thinking about him. Must have looked for him. Was worried about him. Riley harshly bites his lip to stop the reedy, giggly sound clawing up his throat. He clenches his fist to refocus himself, then presses his palm against his chest.
The stolen dog tags tingle under his clothing. They feel heated pressed against his skin. He presses down firmer to get the imprint of MacTavish’s name on his chest. If he presses down hard enough, maybe they’ll push past his skin and sink right between his ribs, through fat and muscle until they slip between his lungs.
No one can see the smile linger on his face. No one can see the way he grinds the heel of his palm against his chest. So, in the empty hallway, no one can see when he kneels in front of the door with a lockpicking set.
It’s like a balm to his heart whenever he steps into MacTavish’s room. It’s dim with the lights off. Meticulously organised. Filled with all the standard furniture and personal effects hidden away in drawers. Yet the air smells different. It’s soothing on Riley’s skin. It’s sacred ground that he steps on when he quietly shuts the door and encloses himself in this hallowed space.
He trails his fingertips over the light switch but doesn’t turn it on. The blinds are drawn down, leaving him in darkness. He knows his way around by heart. He feels it out by touch. MacTavish is off to the office to deal with the ever-growing pile of paperwork on his desk so he has time to linger. To breathe it in. To let it wash over him and sink into his marrow to recall later when he must leave.
He never wants to leave.
MacTavish’s hands must have brushed over the same lines that Riley follows now. The corner of the desk and the knobs of the wardrobe. On the shelf, just at eye level, his clothes have been folded into precise square stacks. The sweater he’s looking for lies directly on top. He knows where it is, but he gently trails his fingers over the rest of the clothing too. Just the barest of touches, fabric scratching against his fingertips, until he reaches his target.
Riley folds the one in his hands into the perfect shape to set it in its place. It looks exactly the same, the wear and tear identical, except MacTavish’s has that scent to it, the one he’s been missing. The artificially imitated one sits just as this one had been when Riley closes the wardrobe door and brings the real one up to his face.
He rucks the bottom of his mask up to get a clear breath in. His nose is pressed to the inside of the collar. The fibres tickle his lips and he carefully tests it with his tongue. It tastes of cotton. But underneath – the slight bitterness of sweat. It’s a taste he knows well. But not well enough. Never well enough. He needs it imprinted into his brain, constantly lingering on his tongue, hovering in the air around him.
If he stays here for just a moment longer, he might get his fill.
He’s been here before but he sweeps his eyes over the entire room again – and again and again and again— Memorises it in its entirety. The way the sheets are tucked into the bed, how the chair is pushed as far under the table as possible, how a couple pens have been straightened by the edge of the desk, how the half empty water bottle sits on the corner nearest the bed.
It catches his attention. The water reflects the little light there is. Riley can’t help himself from noticing the peeling label, can’t stop himself from taking a step closer to note how it’s nearly empty.
He sets the sweater down only to pick up the bottle. Unscrews the cap and drags his tongue across the opening. The plastic rings where MacTavish’s mouth has been, lips pressed against it. Riley can taste him underneath the plastic. A thrill courses through him.
The plastic is hard against his tongue but that’s never stopped him before. The sting is worth the knowledge that the next time MacTavish will drink from this to drain the bottle, he’ll be tasting a little bit of Riley too. The thought feels illicit. He shouldn’t sully MacTavish with himself, but the urge is too strong to ignore, the opportunity too sweet to let pass by. His heart is thumping in his chest.
It’s with great reluctance and only after he’s firmly circled his tongue around the whole rim that he screws the cap back on. He shouldn’t leave a mark of himself, yet the thought worms to the forefront of his mind in an instant. Greedy and indulgent, his fingers itching for it before he can even fully consider the consequences of being caught.
The label is peeling off. It’s slightly torn at the edge. It would be so easy to just—
Riley rips the sticker off and stuffs it into his pocket. It’s the brand MacTavish always drinks. It might be the cheapest, the most easily available, but it’s the one he always has.
Carefully, Riley sets the bottle back down right where it was. Perfectly aligned with the pens, an even distance from the edges, the cap screwed on tight. He takes one last look at the room as a whole before he makes himself step outside.
The hallway is empty yet he shuts the door quietly just in case. And the next moment he’s practically booking it down the corridor to his own room. The sweater is clutched tight in his hand. He doesn’t want to ruin it. He can’t bear to let go of it.
It doesn’t matter how loud of a bang the door makes when he pulls it shut behind himself because he can rip the mask off and bury his face in the sweater. A deep breath, and he’s sinking against the wall.
It smells like bliss. He wants to keep breathing in. Holds the scent in his lungs even when it starts to burn. He never wants to breathe out. It’s so warm in his hand. Warm against his chest. If he dared to put it on, the heat of it would surround him entirely, embraced in MacTavish’s touch by proxy. The thought makes him dizzy.
He keeps the sweater pressed tightly to his chest, his heartbeat loud and hard beneath where he’s fisting it. With his other hand he brings the sticker from his pocket and straightens it on the desk. He sets it on the far edge of the table, right next to the watch he stole from MacTavish, the scarf from their last op in Siberia, the empty body gel bottle, a dull shaving razor he threw away. The weak glue on the back sticks to the table, edges of the label curled inwards. Riley memorises the brand, just in case he’ll ever have the opportunity to get it for him. He’ll get anything for him. MacTavish won’t even have to ask and Riley will have it.
He’s devoted. He can’t be anything less.
MacTavish is the only good captain he’s ever had. The only person left who appreciates and knows him. The only one who has made an effort. The only one who’s worth it. The only person who means something. And Riley can’t lose him. Cannot.
So he presses the stolen dog tags to his chest. Keeps a Velcro nametag with MacTavish’s name on the lapel of the spare jacket he has hanging on the hook. Always introduces himself as captain MacTavish’s lieutenant and nothing else.
He does everything he can to brand himself as MacTavish’s. Because MacTavish takes good care of his belongings, meaning he must also take good care of Riley. He can’t throw him aside, can’t abandon him. Riley will gladly dedicate himself to sitting perfectly on the edge of his desk like his pens are in a row, to kneeling on the floor beside his boots, to laying on the ground just so it might be warmer for him to step on. Anything he needs, as long as Riley can be of use.
He huffs on the sweater until he loses the smell. It’s an intrinsic fault that olfactory adaptation exists. If he could, he’d live off the scent forever.
Riley lays the sweater out on the bed instead. Hopefully the sheets will imbue the scent and he can surround himself in it entirely. Like an embrace that leaves him dazed, too euphoric to even fall asleep. If the smell carries over to even just his pillow he’ll be satisfied and he can press his face into it until he suffocates.
Riley puts all his stealth training to good use. There’s a reason he’s considered an expert at it – he has a lot of practice. Every day that he isn’t sent off on a mission on his own he’s a constant shadow behind MacTavish, following him around the entire base, wherever he goes. Always there. Always unnoticed. He knows every nook and cranny and open door and empty office to dip into when necessary, has enough of a presence to scare off any straggling witnesses who might glimpse him loitering around a corner, head tilted just so to eavesdrop.
It’s easier on missions when they’re shipped out together. There’s no need for excuses when they’re crammed together in the tiny room of a safehouse, or the back of a car, or when Riley takes most of the night watch upon himself to sit right beside MacTavish’s sleeping bag, listening to him breathe.
It’s more difficult on base. More variables. But it’s better too. He can put his whole focus into it. No hostiles or mission objective to consider. Just MacTavish, and his predictable daily routine.
It’s just the same every day. Riley knows it by heart. He can tell MacTavish hasn’t slept well if he lingers by the coffee machine for a few seconds longer in the morning, knows he’s frustrated with the brass if he drops into his office chair forcefully enough to wring a squeak from it. He knows it’s often up to Riley himself to remind him that it’s late enough for bed.
But only after he’s had his fill – his never-ending, unquenchable fill – of looking. Diligent, determined, focused, controlled, so methodically organised. He stretches his fingers before he keeps typing. Fingertips calloused, knuckles scarred over, forearms flexing as he reaches over only to find the mug on his right empty.
Riley could stay here sighing longingly for ever. But that’s no good for MacTavish. It would be selfish of him. MacTavish wouldn’t address the lines of fatigue under his eyes but Riley will. He’ll do it for him. He’s being so useful.
He won’t delude himself with thinking he can make MacTavish better. The best he can do it make his life easier. Know him so wholly and completely that he integrates himself as importantly as the sidearm he keeps under his bed or the journal he always scribbles into. The only thing he can do is fall to his knees and hope to be used in whatever way he wants.
He’s not just the best captain Riley knows, he’s the best man. The only man worth anything.
Light spills into the darkened hallway from under the door. It brushes the toes of Riley’s boots when he stops to rap his knuckles against it. A soft yellow, a gold reaching towards him, light crawling along the ground to wrap around his ankles, grab onto his knees, curl around his waist as he opens the door and steps inside.
Riley would be the same way, if MacTavish allowed it.
“It’s late,” Riley says instead of doing any of that. Instead of doing most of it, at least. He steps into the office and then keeps stepping farther. It pulls at his heart, a tightness in his chest. His ribs spreading open from the inside out to let MacTavish’s presence wholly into himself. It scorches him like staring at the sun, and he basks in the heat of it.
Walking into the desk is the only thing that keeps Riley from him.
MacTavish gives an acknowledging grunt, eyes still locked on the screen as he finishes up what he’s writing. Riley waits. He wouldn’t dare interrupt his order. He’s only interrupting at all because MacTavish himself keeps repeating to Riley that sleep is beneficial for him.
It’s a little bit selfish, too, lingering in silence to watch him from up close. The furrow of his brow and the concentrated line of his mouth. The hair on the sides of his head has grown out. It will be another three days until MacTavish will shave it.
When MacTavish does look up at him, it’s with an easy smile that’s nothing more than an upwards tick of the corner of his lips. He nods at the empty cup that sits on the edge of the desk. “You don’t think you might get me another?”
Riley lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re singlehandedly driving up the inventory costs.”
MacTavish returns the smile, a little wider now, and Riley must find his joy in that instead of what he really means to say. If it were any less of a joke, Riley would be half way to the kitchen by now.
“Alright,” MacTavish acquiesces. He shuts down the laptop. Reorders the papers on his desk. The ones that are done are filed away in folders. The ones still to be finished are left just within reach for tomorrow morning. “What are you still doing up, anyway?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Riley shrugs.
“And now you’re telling me it’s too late?” Yet he’s packing up anyway, setting everything straight until he rises, then promptly pushes the chair until it’s completely under the table as well.
“Just looking out for you, sir,” Riley offers.
It’s far simpler than that. MacTavish matters more than him.
Riley follows him out of the office as he turns off the lights and locks the door. Lingers as MacTavish starts for the barracks, only to pause and turn to him to pat him on the shoulder. “Go to bed too, Riley.”
He’s walking away before Riley can formulate a response. His arm burns where MacTavish’s palm touched him. His breath is stuck in his throat. He watches MacTavish go until he’s left alone in the dim light, afraid to touch that spot in fear of wiping MacTavish’s touch from himself.
He’s too wired to go to sleep. He was never planning to, anyway. The path ahead taunts him, but it’s too early to follow him, the risk too high to get caught. So he slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve his lockpicking set and crouches by the office door. With a soft click it opens.
It’s insolence, yet he allows himself the selfishness of taking one of the pens MacTavish has lined up. He gathers the forms he left in the other hand. Only after stalling for a safe amount of time does he go to the barracks.
He’ll lessen to load for MacTavish. He’ll have these finished by morning. He’ll do it for him even if it strains his eyes in the darkness and he’ll be groggy with lack of sleep. The promise of seeing MacTavish again will wake him up well enough.
The presence of the pen keeps him wide awake, his fingers exactly where MacTavish’s grip it. The presence behind him keeps him elated, his back to the wall of MacTavish’s room.
Just a thin wall separates them, and if Riley were to press his ear to it, he might hear MacTavish’s even breaths. He’d hear it better if he were sitting inside the room, right beside the bed, listening from up close. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the beat of his heart intently enough that his own copies it. Counting how many breaths he takes during the night, how many times he turns, memorising the way he lies.
But he’s not there, so he must do this. He needs to do this. So he sits outside in the hallway, the forms on his knees, writing in ambient light with his pen, because MacTavish needs these filled out, which means Riley needs these filled out.
If he makes himself a part of MacTavish then he can’t put Riley aside. Because he needs Riley. If Riley has a part of him. If Riley becomes a part of him.
Riley returns the forms what feels like only a few hours later. He’s up bright and early, knocking on the office door first thing in the morning.
He could have returned them in the night when he finished them, but the temptation was too strong. MacTavish’s pen in his hand, MacTavish’s room at his back, he couldn’t bear to the leave the warm, sated feeling that settled in his chest. And he wants to see the expression on MacTavish’s face, that small smile reserved for Riley, the slight fall of his shoulders, the easing of his posture when his workload has been lightened. Riley is already smiling to himself under the mask about it. His heart feels light.
“Enter.” The call comes muffled after Riley knocks. He opens the door to find MacTavish bent over the drawers, digging through them. He only pauses to look up when Riley steps up to the desk. His eyes narrow when they land on the papers in his hand. “So you took them.”
It’s accusatory. The words are sharp. The tone is cutting.
“I finished them for you,” Riley offers. Tentatively, he sets the forms down on the table. The pen is clipped to them.
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
“Yeah— just,” Riley’s heart feels like stone; he dips his head under MacTavish’s glare, “helping you.”
MacTavish drags them towards himself to look them over. He pulls the pen off and lines it back up by the edge of the desk where Riley had taken it from. He’s still frowning at Riley. The way he frowns at people other than Riley. He isn’t supposed to look like that. He isn’t supposed to be angry with him. Riley can’t breathe. His head is spinning.
“I don’t need you to do things for me.”
Riley recoils. He can’t quite hide the flinch of his hands before he curls them into fists to hide the tremble running down his arms. His ribs break and puncture his lungs, blood fills his heart until it bursts, his muscles atrophy in an instant.
For a long, terrifying moment, he’s frozen still under MacTavish’s glare.
He needs to fix this. He has to fix this. He can’t— He can’t bear this. The ground should crack beneath his feet and swallow him up yet he’s stuck here, in a world that isn’t crumbling. His hair stands on end as if it is. It is.
“I was just—”
“If I need you to do something,” MacTavish cuts in, “I’ll tell you. Understood?”
Riley sucks a sharp breath in. Carefully, he lifts his eyes to meet MacTavish’s. For no longer than a split second before his gaze drops again. MacTavish’s mouth is pressed into a thin line. His jaw is set. His shoulders are so tense. Riley is suffocating.
“How did you even get these?” MacTavish asks, though the answer must be obvious. They both know he left them in this office, just as he had meticulously lined up the pens as he does every day. They both know the door was locked. They both know how little Riley slept to deliver these at this early of an hour.
There’s a lump in Riley’s throat. It doesn’t go away when he swallows. He might throw up. He’d deserve to. The taste of bile lingers at the back of his mouth. He should take the knife in the sheath on his thigh and just stab himself in the throat to get it over with.
“Dismissed,” MacTavish says, the most professional he’s ever been with Riley since they first met.
He can’t take this. His skin is breaking apart by the molecule. MacTavish’s hands curl into fist and he leans on them on the table. He’s squeezing Riley’s heart in those same hands, rough callouses digging into the arteries and valves, crushing the chambers into mush.
Riley leaves as quickly as he can. Closes the door behind himself mechanically. Stands stock-still outside in the hallway. And takes a deep breath.
He clutches onto the dog tags under his clothes. Closes his fist so tight until the edges dig into his palms. The sting from the letters of MacTavish’s name stamped into metal is his only solace.
He had it wrong. He went too far. He didn’t go far enough. But he did everything right. Surely this was the right thing to do. He needs to do anything he can. He needs this. He needs this.
He just needs to— approach this differently. This isn’t going to stop him. He can’t let this stop him. MacTavish will see. Riley just has to work harder and be more careful, and then MacTavish will see.