Turns out spending half the night running around in the rain isn't all that good for you. Who could've guessed? According to Doc, Scarab came down with the flu, so he placed her on sick leave for the next few days. Hopefully after that, she'd be back to work. MacTavish took this time to plot a game plan for how he could let Scarab down easy. He thought out an entire "it's not you, it's me" speech about how he was gay (it wasn't accurate, Ghost and a couple other men were very specific exceptions) and that he didn't feel comfortable telling her up to this point. Something something, don't ask don't tell, and hope to fuck and back that she believes him.

After a couple days of hanging around on base, Nikolai was given a ride back to the Loyalist hideout in Ukraine, taking the dog, now dubbed Chekhov, with him. Before he boarded the plane, Nikolai patted his shoulder and said, "Good luck with your girlfriend."

"Girlfriend," MacTavish repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face. "W-wait, what gave you that idea?"

Nikolai frowned and tipped his head. "My friend, did you really think I could sleep with the two of you talking? You kissed as well, yes?"

He saw... Christ Almighty, he saw that...

He wanted to correct the man, but his words lodged in his throat. There was no way he could explain the situation he was in. The topic of homosexuality never came up between them, so he had no idea what Nikolai would think. He was a good friend, but this had the potential to be polarizing. Besides, Russia had a reputation as far as homophobia was concerned. The odds didn't look good. Instead, he croaked, "It's complicated..."

Nikolai didn't seem to think twice on that answer. "Like I said, best of luck to you." He gave him one of his bear hugs, patting his back as he did, before taking his leave. Could he be any more cryptic?

The following evening, MacTavish poked his head in Doc's office to inquire about Scarab. The medic was going through a few files in the cabinet at the time. He plucked one manila folder from the drawer and regarded the Captain with a nod.

"Let me guess, did you roll your ankle again?"

You slip on the O-course one time... MacTavish shook his head. "No. I'm just checking if Scarab was cleared for duty."

Doc set the folder down and fished through his pen cup for a highlighter. "Private Macey? I was going to send the report on that to your desk, but alright." He pulled a different paper from under the chaotic spread of files on his work desk, and held it out to MacTavish for him to take. "She reported that her cough got worse and she's having a severe amount of pain in her left side and back. Her fever spiked too. I think it's possible she might have developed pneumonia. For now, I'll be keeping her on bed rest for the rest of the week and put her on an antibiotic and Motrin."

She was still sick. Worse apparently. So much for resolving things tomorrow. MacTavish nodded. "I see."

Doc didn't look up as he ran the highlighter along a couple lines in whatever document he was going through. "She's spirited, I'll give her that. Managed to walk her ass all the way over here from the barracks. I had to call over Brandy to make sure she made it back to her dorm."

Brandy was a different medic. MacTavish encountered him less often than Doc, so he didn't know all that much about him. The guy was from the U.S. Army, and was a Sergeant if he wasn't mistaken. Like many of the men here, General Shepherd personally picked him, but his records were so painfully average that MacTavish had skimmed it. On one hand, he questioned why the medic was pulled at all, but on the other he did his work and didn't stir trouble.

"Was there something else you needed, Captain?" Doc asked.

"Ah, no. Thanks."

He didn't have much of anywhere to go after that, so he meandered back towards the barracks. It wasn't late, but most of the men would probably be off duty. A piece of paper was taped to the door to his quarters. He stared down the scrawled note.

It could only be from one person: Worm. That man's penmanship was so bad MacTavish had to have him retype any debriefs and paperwork he's ever turned in. He kept insisting that it was legible, but when you somehow can mistake "windy" for "vemly" there was a serious problem.

"Ya, Captain..." He squinted. "That's a fucking eight... Okay, eight scribble ccur dhulhenge? Wait... Did he misspell soccer? Soccer challenge. C... C-uvme? to the friend?" MacTavish rubbed his chin. "Apparently someone wants to play football."

MacTavish plucked the note off his door and shoved it in his pocket. There was only one place anybody played football on base, and that was the field they used for drills. They had a couple of small nets that could be set up and stored as needed, so it was a good pass time for everyone. It used to be rugby until Buck got tackled hard, hit his head on the ground, and had anterograde amnesia for about a week. He ended up off the duty roster for a whole month, Price had to fumble through reporting the incident to Shepherd, and Roach (the best rugby player they had) was too scared to play because he was the poor sod who tackled Buck in the first place.

By context clues alone, he came across a crowd of twenty one people in the field in a mix of partial uniforms, gym clothes, and shirtlessness. Ghost and Roach were chatting to the side when he approached.

"Glad you decided to show up, MacTavish," Ghost greeted. His mask was still on and his sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. "I was starting to wonder."

"You could've picked someone other than Worm to send the missive." MacTavish replied, passing him the note. Ghost took one look and snorted a laugh. The Captain added, "I didn't realize people could write aneurysms."

Ghost shrugged. It was difficult to tell, but with the way the mask shifted on his face, he was definitely grinning. "I was going to send Roach, but I figured it wouldn't grab your attention like one of Worm's notes. You've been distracted these last few days, and I need another person on my team, so be a dear and help me kick Meat's arse."

It was impossible for him not to smile at this. "Just tell me where you want me."

That grin finally reached the lieutenant's eyes as they crinkled in the corners. "Goalie."

The ball came flying in from MacTavish's peripheral and he swatted it down to the ground before it could hit him in the hip. At its point of origin was Meat. "Hey, if you two are done shooting the shit, we can get this show on the road!"

And so began an hour long game, marked by a collection of Meat's dad jokes and Worm getting regularly called on illegal use of hands. MacTavish didn't claim to be the best goalie, but the net was half the size of a normal one. Only a couple of shots got past him, and they were from Archer, who managed to put such a ridiculous spin on the ball that it effectively dodged his hand.

The sun dropped below the horizon and soon the field was only lit by the full moon and the semi-distant flood lights around the base's buildings and barracks. The low light made white shirts and skin appear to glow. The ball blinked in and out of his line of sight between a tangle of legs. On the opposite end of the field, Meat's goalie, Heatstroke, didn't fair so well under the combined tag team of Roach and Ghost on offense. At one point, Roach passed the ball to Ghost, and the lieutenant launched that thing so fast that it was a blur.

It hit Heatstroke square in the chest, and every man in the field was treated to her shout, "Fuck! My tit!"

"You alright?" Ghost asked.

Heatstroke held her boob. "Yeah, I think I'll live."

The game was close, about 4-3, with their team on top. The lot of them went to the mess together, chatting and laughing. Dinner was already served and in full swing. This horde of sweat soaked men took up a whole table. MacTavish sat at the far end with Ghost by his side.

"It's good to see everyone in high spirits," MacTavish mentioned.

Ghost picked at his stew. "I don't think you realize how much of an impact you have on them. These last few days, you've been antsy and they pick up on that. Meat arranged this game to ease the tension."

Down on the opposite end of the table, Meat reached across and snagged Royce's dinner roll, jamming it in his mouth. Royce rolled his eyes, but didn't seem especially bothered by the loss of his roll. Certainly not when Roach simply handed him his.

"You're right," MacTavish said. "If the General allows it, they all deserve a holiday."

"If? Planning on some negotiations?" Ghost asked. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll get an actual Christmas party this year."

Last year, they made a tree out of tires and aluminum bottles outside one of the warehouses. They worked as usual. It was late July now. Maybe if he put the suggestion out there early, Shepherd would be more willing to agree to the idea. "We'll see."

Ghost tapped his knee against his. "Christmas party or not, maybe we can drive to that bar in town when we got a day to kill."

The bar in question was some quaint hole in the wall they discovered a few years back and frequented after missions. They'd have a few rounds, walk the lamp lit streets. If they went in civilian clothes, MacTavish felt comfortable enough to sit close and hold hands and kiss in public.

A few times, they crashed at a motel for the night and relished in the additional privacy. Away from base, the pair of them were willing to be a lot more adventurous than in his quarters. Despite paper thin walls, noise didn't feel like so much an issue.

MacTavish idled with his spork. He didn't realize he was nearly this much a romantic until Ghost. If they weren't around other people, if his image didn't matter, he'd kiss Ghost on the head and hold him close. "I'd like that. I can treat you, if you want."

"Something tells me you could use the treat more than me, mate," Ghost remarked.

Up to this point, MacTavish had one of his hands in his lap. Ghost's stealthily slipped over and locked their fingers together. This was as much as they could get away with without drawing attention to it. It was so small, and yet it meant so much. When dinner was done, Ghost had no choice but to let go.

Only when they returned to the privacy of MacTavish's quarters were they able to act further. The bed creaked as MacTavish straddled over Ghost and pulled his mask up to kiss his jawline.

Ghost laughed lightly, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "You're being extra affectionate today, aren't you?"

"After everything, I think you deserve a little spoiling." MacTavish pecked his lips and drew back just to watch Ghost push his head up for more. "Whatever you want this time."

"Anything?"

"Mhm..." MacTavish slipped his hand up Ghost's shirt and felt along his chest. He gave one of his nipples a gentle twist, the lieutenant gasped. "Well, Ghost?"

Ghost tugged the mask off all the way at this point. His short hair was matted from being contained for so long. "For starters, don't call me Ghost."

MacTavish hummed against his neck, amused by the request. "And what would you like me to call you, Lieutenant?"

Before Ghost could answer, he traced his finger down his abs. This elicited a shudder. "N-not that."

"Oh? Riley then?" He reached the tented fabric of his pants. Camouflage didn't do a whole lot of good hiding it. Pressing down with the heel of his palm, he came up to Ghost's ear and asked, "Or would you rather I call you Simon?"

There were goosebumps all up Ghost's arms, and he felt the perked hair brush against his neck as Ghost embraced him. "Please. Simon's good."

Heatstroke returned to her dorm after the soccer game and dinner. It was a high energy match, and she was pleasantly tired. Thankfully her boob stopped stinging after Ghost's kick. She thought it'd bruise for a sec.

Tucked under a couple thin blankets and propped up with her pillow, Scarab finally seemed to be sleeping. Heatstroke sighed with relief. The last few days had been rough. Nothing but coughing and wheezing and Scarab complaining that she couldn't sleep whatsoever with how much pain she was in.

Maybe she just got so tired that she couldn't stay awake.

Thinking little on the matter, Heatstroke changed out of her sweaty clothes and crawled into her bed on the other side of the room. Being here now, with Scarab, was absolutely surreal. Once upon a little over a decade before, they met in school and became fast friends. In a lot of ways, she joined the military because the way Scarab talked about it inspired her.

Who would've thought that they'd both be here together? If it were a dream, it was one she didn't want to wake up from.

Before she could fall asleep, Scarab woke with a fit of hacking coughs. She clutched her side and groaned once it subsided. "...Riley...? What time is it?"

"Ten past 21:00. Did you need something?" Heatstroke sat up and crossed her legs.

Scarab shook her head. "Don't worry about it, I don't have much of an appetite anyways."

"Pneumonia must be kicking your ass."

With a faint nod, Scarab drew a short, wheezing breath, and tapped her head back against the wall. "I feel terrible."

{—To Be Continued—

Summary of Plan B Chapter 12b

12b. At base, there's drama. Ghost is a good b-friend.

A/N: This chapter was weird, since I had literally about only half of Plan B's chapter worth of material to work with. It's only about 500-700 words worth of material that I somehow had to expand into a full chapter. This ended up being shorter than the others, but it's mostly a breather episode. Nice because the next one is where Plan B goes ape shit. Scarab develops pneumonia as a result of her flu, and people around the base are trying to get MacTavish less anxious in their own ways.

Originally, Roach tries to get him to join a game of rugby and gets turned down. Then Meat and Royce tag team and abduct him for a walk on the hiking trails. Now, because I'm a sucker for wholesome family moments, I changed it to a soccer game where more of the characters could get involved. I guess in theory, they could have a mini soccer tournament, since they have enough for four teams with a couple people left over. Probably more if they use smaller teams. I'll need to consider that for an Extra.
Also, Younger Me didn't know how pneumonia worked. Sure enough, last year, I came down with it and got misdiagnosed about 2-3 times. I reread this chapter and the next after that, and it's laughable how wrong I wrote it. I'm not writing it from Scarab's perspective, but I'm keeping it a lot more in line with how that actually works.
I'm not looking forward to fixing the next arc of this story...