#dark cod fic

Word Count: 3.2k

In the video, two young men lean over a smiling woman. They’re pointing at her naked chest with a big smile on their faces. A gentle murmur of a party can be heard in the background, like sound coming from another room. One of the men is clearly your boyfriend, he’s got the same flat smile and sharp features. His hands stray too close to the exposed woman’s chest.

 She shifts uncomfortably and noticeably whispers something that the camera isn’t able to hear. 

“Hold on-” Shawn leans down. “I just can’t hear you, love.” He leans until her thin fingers are cupped around his ear. The woman looks ill. But Shawn simply responds, “I have to tell my girlfriend first, don’t worry.”   

Cool relief splits open on the other woman’s face. She laughs, and says something again. Her words are broken up as someone off camera lets out a shrill, drunk laugh. Shawn frowns, answering, 

“What? No. She just doesn’t care.” There’s a sharpness to his words. 

A desperate lie or stubborn insistence? John doesn’t believe him for a second. How many guys has he known that have insisted their girls don’t mind a little flirting, only to cry once they’ve been dumped. John likes to think that he knows his team pretty well. And now that you’re a part of it (in your own strange, special way), he knows you pretty well too. 

The brief interactions between the two of you leave something to be desired. In an effort to get to know you he might have arranged for your paths to cross. John would never let something as pointless as immature desire get in the way of his job. But you were going to be important. Another piece of his self-made family, he could tell. 

The surveillance unit was more than happy to send you over when John noticed they had “forgotten” to add several important files. Most everything was digital these days, but no one was going to question the experienced task force leader who “needed” printed copies for mission plans. Your presence was a breath of fresh air. Curt but amiable. Attractive in the way you held yourself, with confidence and ease. 

When John asked you a question, you made it your mission to provide some kind of answer. Sometimes it would be just helpful advice but for the most part, you took it as a point of pride to just be plain good at your job. And you were well aware of it if the confident smile on your face was any indicator. 

“Oh,” John would say, “I’m afraid that I don’t understand, could you explain it to me?” 

Each time you stand in front of his desk with arms folded behind your back. When you speak, John feels like you understood him better than most of his friends. The explanation you give is always detailed but simple, even a child would understand it. John sometimes likes to imagine you explaining things to him while he’s bent you over and worked you through with his cock. He likes to lean back in his chair and watch the curve of your hips and thighs shift. He imagines that your sweet voice would never waiver until John had found the perfect spot to ram his cock-head into. 

He hates that Shawn, an unremarkable and talentless sergeant could take advantage of you. So what to do? It would obviously be in the 141st’s favor to report Shawn’s behavior back to you. They had video footage that clearly depicted your partner cheating. For the video’s remaining ten minutes, each soldier in the group kissed the girl. She dances and laughs. More and more of her clothes come off as her audience hollers. Your boyfriend is there, his hands lingering for far too long. His eyes filled with bleeding avarice.

But what if you two really did have an open relationship? Would you gently explain the arraignment with the 141. Apologize for the confusion and thank the team for their chivalry? Or would you get upset with four virtual strangers butting into your private life? 

No. More intel needed to be gathered, John had convinced his boys to be patient. Their video of Shawn went into a secret file. One filled with screen-shots of the models he followed on Instagram and Twitter. Even if you never saw the file’s contents, they had the potential to be a valuable piece of leverage against Shawn in the future. But until they returned from Romania, nothing was going to happen.  

The 141 weren’t happy to hear that. Ever since his team had uncovered evidence of Shawn’s infidelity, John had been dealing with behavior that bordered on mutiny. Dirty glances were shot his way. Gaz and Soap frequently visited your apartment, collecting items from your treasure trove of knick-knacks and clothes. It was only Ghost who seemed unaffected, but his tone had gotten a tad sharper when speaking to Shawn in public. Normally John would never condone such behavior. But certain norms went out the window when a member of the 141 was hurting. 

Not that you knew enough to really be hurting. You go through work with your neutral face and gentle voice. As the days ticked off, getting closer to their mission, you remained stalwart. The work you delivered maintains the same standard. You continued to work well, not just with other civilian officers but with the base soldiers as well. 

Shawn had firmly established himself as your partner. It kind of reminded John of an angry dog pissing all over you. The Captain had only seen you and your partner interact in passing. But he got enough reports from the rest of his team. It made them even more angry about the whole terrible situation. They spit out the details of your relationship. Shawn followed you around when it suited him. Deep eyes, glaring at anyone near your orbit. Including the 141. It made a ridiculous image. You, your boyfriend and the cloud of idiots he attracted. None of them bothered to give you the time of day. Except…

It had been a random Tuesday. Gaz and Soap had been wheedling their superior officers to join a single lunch with them in the cafeteria. So it was a table filled with the 141, sitting in languid silence as they waited for you. At some point Soap and Gaz had started picking at their own food. Meanwhile Ghost had settled for a bottle of water clutched between his two hands. 

You entered like you always do. Your heels clicking, eyes set at a point ahead of you. Better posture than most, but the way you carry yourself is odd. Fascinating to watch, John decided. Uneven footfall. You bobbed your head to a tune that seemed to exist in your head. Elegant. But not without fault. 

Shawn escorted you around the room with a hand wrapped around your wrist. There was a black lunch tray gripped between your hands. John recognized the items from your lunch as the usual fixins’ Gaz and Soap had been keeping a dutiful record of. It seemed Shawn had a hand on your wrist because you had a bad habit of bumping into people in crowded rooms. Sometimes your shoulders would bump into someone. Or you would lose balance, your toe hitting the side of someone’s shoe. 

Shawn’s friend laughed every time you had to stop and apologize. They shot knowing glances at your boyfriend. And he glared at you. Still no reaction from your end. 

Even though your lunch tray was full, you joined Shawn in line. He ordered his food, keeping that hand on your wrist. John wondered if the grip was ever hard enough to hurt. God help that poor soldier if the 141 ever found a bruise on you. 

“Lt. Forche thinks the mission date will be moving up,” John heard Gaz report. He had already heard from the visiting Lieutenant about the mission’s updates. But Soap was listening with a soft smile on his face. Both the Sergeants loved gossip more than they should. And neither man thought to actually ask their superior officer (one of their partners) for more details. 

Gaz must have been pleased with how Soap reacted because he began to speak more animatedly. The spoon in his hand was being used to emphasize each word. John eyed the cafeteria food on Gaz’s tray and considered stealing what was left over once the Sergeant wasn’t paying attention. 

His attention was only drawn your way when John heard Simon make a soft, hissing sound. Any noise that Simon made was always an intentional effort on his part. Clearly he was trying to communicate something to the 141, so they all looked up and followed his gaze. 

The base’s soldiers were waiting in line at the cafeteria. Shawn’s attention had drifted back to you, his friends were notably missing. If it weren’t for the 141’s notice, you and Shawn would have been completely unnoticed by the entire cafeteria. 

He still has his hand around your wrist. That grip was being used to pull your face closer to Shawn’s lips. The Sergeant was speaking with his brows knitted, lips pulled in a tight sneer. John was sure that if the cafeteria was any rowdier, they wouldn’t have been able to hear what Shawn was saying. But thankfully, someone up there must have wanted the 141 to hear Shawn’s recriminations. 

He was speaking quickly. Not looking at you in the eyes, instead his mouth was near your ear. The man faced toward the rest of the room, looking at anyone but you. 

“It’s embarrassing-” the words he spoke were cutting in and out. John was willing to bet Simon heard more than he did. (Out of the two of them, only John had tinnitus strong enough he needed to sleep with a fan at night.) But what John did hear made his blood run cold. 

“Everyone was laughing at you….yeah, well, maybe….I know you hate my friends…that doesn’t matter.”

The entire time you had that same beautified smile on your face. It appeared with-out fail whenever Shawn got near you. Like you were genuinely happy to be near him. Like his presence did make you happy. Happier than 141 had ever been able to make you so far. 

John knew acting when he saw it. He knew genuine displeasure and he knew polite interest. And you weren’t acting. That’s what made it worse as that punk continued to degrade you. What did you see that the 141 did not? 

Soap rose to his feet in anger. And John let him, he knew where the younger Sergeant was going. 

Over the sound of gentle conversation, Johnny spoke up so his voice could be heard by you. 

“Ay, lass. Over here!” He laughed when you and your boyfriend looked up. “Yeah, ye’ too, Shawn!” Soap teased, “Ah see ye’ too, hiding in the corner.” 

With a stupified look on his face, Shawn allowed the 141’s Sergeant to drag him by his wrist. You follow closely behind, taking a seat next to Shawn when Soap comes to a stop and pushes him to sit at the table. 

John can’t say he’s thrilled to have to deal with Shawn’s preening. But keeping around that ass means nothing compared to having a moment of your time. 

“Hey,” you tell the team. “It’s nice to see you all.” With a tentative laugh you add, “I feel like I keep seeing everyone around base.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shawn muttered, “They’re working, the team doesn’t have time to wander around.” And then, he added meaningfully, “The 141 doesn’t have time to slack off.” 

Whatever he was trying to communicate is clear to you but not to the 141. They watch you nod before adding in slow words, 

“I understand Shawn.” The 141 was looking back and forth between you and your boyfriend, waiting for the other shoe to drop. John felt as though he was watching a tennis game. You bounced words back and forth at one another. He was hoping that soon enough your boyfriend would finally miss his hit.

“What I don’t understand,” Gaz finally said, “Is why our teams aren’t planning a party.” 

You tore your eyes away from that boy of yours. 

“A party,” you ask Gaz. “Why would we be planning a party?” 

“Och, ah thought Shawn woulda’ told ye by now,” Soap cut in. “His team has a reputation fer being the party boys.” Behind him, Ghost twitched. To an outsider, they wouldn’t have given any weight to the small movement. But John knew Ghost long enough to know that he was laughing, quietly. 

“Oh!” You replied, “Shawn always goes out drinking before he’s sent off. I wouldn’t call that a party.”

“Nothing serious,” your boyfriend told John. “My team and I would never risk the mission. A couple days beforehand we’ll get together or go to a bar and lose some steam.” 

“Oh, ay bet ye’ do,” Soap replied. He delivered the lines with such a leering smile on his face. There was no way Shawn could have recognized Johnny’s words as an insult. But he probably thought the other Sergeant was being lewd. 

“Maybe we should all get together,” Gaz suggested. He rubbed his hands together with boyish delight. “The 141st and the 643rd, we’ll meet up at someone’s house, drink, dance.” With a raised brow he added, “Let off steam.” 

“Really,” Shawn said. He said the entire word, stressing each syllable. “You guys party like that,” he added with a loaded tone. Nervous eyes flicked over to the Captain. John simply chuckled, putting on the airs of innocence. Next he looked at Ghost, before quickly bowing away in submission. The Sergeant added, “My C.O’s don’t really come to our parties, it’s a bit too wild for their tastes.”   

John set his lips in a firm smile. Your boy was hilarious, though the young Sergeant certainly didn’t see it that way. It was a wonder that Shawn, or any of his buddies, hadn’t gotten discharged. 

Based on the video that they had seen of Shawn’s parties, they hadn’t seen any proof of drug use. The boys he ran with were much too smart for that. (Surely cursed by their own stupidity but still they eeked enough common sense to pass for adequate soldiers.) 

And yet, Shawn still flirted with danger. 

“Well our little get together doesn’t have to get that crazy,” John announced. Dutifully the 141 fell in line and made their own little motions of agreement. Soap was nodding. Ghost leered down at Shawn, waiting for him to disagree. Even Gaz was humming, his opinion clear. 

“I’ll invite Lt. Forche,” John continued, “We can have the party at my house. Just some drinks, music, and a…movie or something.” Anything to have you in John’s house. And maybe while your boyfriend drinks and loses himself, you chose to hang out with the comfortingly sober 141.

John knew he insisted nothing could happen until they got back from Romania. But what was one small get-together right before the mission began?  

Shawn blinked. He looked at you, expecting to find sympathy with-in you. The 141 watched you stare back, implacably. They still hadn’t known you long enough to decode your small cues. But Shawn did. He must not have found the reaction he was looking for because he frowned and huffed. 

“Ok,” Shawn said through grit teeth. He wasn’t even trying to play nice with the other team on a new base. It was a wonder how he had even become a Sergeant in the first place. Hell, it was a wonder his bad attitude hadn’t been beaten out of the boy in basic training. 

“Ok?” John asked. “Perfect-” he looked at Ghost who shrugged. Chuckling, John added, “He says next week works better for him. That sound good, Sergeant?” 

Before Shawn could respond the 141 moved on. Gaz turned to you and asked about something you had been studying in your free-time. John listened to you begin to rant about the history of scurvy. He liked to watch the way your hands move, gesturing to nothing but your own abstract thoughts.

The week passes quickly. But time always does when there’s a mission to focus on. John hardly sees you. Except during the debriefs he asks you to give, regarding the information your office supplies for the mission. He doesn’t feel the least bit guilty about watching you deliver information in a direct tone. He doesn’t feel the lead bit guilty for the idle day-dreams that occupy his thoughts. 

According to Soap and Gaz, you uncharacteristically agreed to go to the party. The Sergeants had previously reported that when it comes to drinking, normally you choose to opt out and stay home. Maybe things were different because your boyfriend was coming. A childish part of John wanted to believe it was because you wanted to see the inside of his home. 

Gaz offered to be your chauffeur to the party. He would dutifully wait until you clocked off and drive to the party and drive you home once it was over. This offer, you turn down. But you don’t explain why. Gaz knows better than to push, but it still makes his cheeks flush with warmth when Soap teased him about “not being charming enough.” 

It was Ghost’s mirroring app on your phone that provided an explanation. Through the 141’s group chat he sent screen-shots of your messaging app. These were snippets of a conversation you had with another civilian on base-another girlfriend whose partner was going to the party. 

That explained who would be giving you a ride. But it also opened up other concerns. John knew the others were worried that if you showed up to the party with a friend then it was possible, they wouldn’t be able to spend time with you. 

John spent his entire day worrying about the matter. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone outside of the 141. He worried when he clocked off, driving to the store to buy food and liquor. He even worried as he cleaned up all evidence of his team from his house. 

When night fell, people from base trickled in. Officially this wasn’t a deployment part but more a celebration of the two teams getting together. Price knew his Sergeants had already gone out drinking with some of the Lt. Forche’s team. But today, he was pretending to network. And he technically was. 

More and more people arrived, including your boyfriend and Price’s own boys. But the one person John was really looking forward to seeing was you.

The moment finally came when he was talking to a Sergeant from some other base and her cheerful boyfriend. Price’s door rang and he excused himself to go answer it. 

Standing outside, you and another girl stood together. Both of you were leaning into one another and giggling. But when you caught sight of Price your expression melted into one of polite indifference. It hurt his heart so he resolved to fix that, 

“It’s good to see you,” and then after a moment, he greeted your friend. 

The both of you finally laughed and Price couldn’t help but smile. Finally, you told Price, 

“Thanks for having us.” And he let you inside, barely able to contain the twitching grin on his face. 

Exasperated, Price rubbed a hand over his beard. It was going to be a long night. 

Gaz who loves and respects his girlfriend. Obviously. You two met through a mutual friend. Stilted and nervous at first, unwilling to put the effort into making a new friend, let alone trying to date someone. But in the next few months circumstances brought you two together and eventually numbers were exchanged, dates had been arranged. The pace was casual, you were serious about school and Gaz couldn't afford much focus when he was on rotation.

But it had been long enough that laid-back dating turned into a committed relationship. You really trusted Gaz. And he couldn't get enough of you. Telling all your shared friends about how wonderful he thought you were. Beyond amazing. Best girl he had ever dated.

But his job still took priority. Months would go by where Gaz would be across the globe. And he wanted something special to take with him. A ring of yours on a chain. Your sleep shirt that was big enough for Gaz to wear. You were happy to comply. And when he asks for you to send a photo one night after a particularly hard mission who were you to say no?

Obviously you were responsible about it. There was no audio. The photos didn't reveal any distinguishing marks or backgrounds. Your face remained outside of the camera's view. Gaz never commented on it. He had always been a private guy and when it comes to his girl, you were no different.

When others began to pass around pictures of their girl, he was more than happy to share half-exposed photos. It never goes betyond a few of his lads. They flash their screens at one another. A few-probably inappropriate-comments are exchanged. Yours earn a few low whistles and comments about Gaz's luck. Nothing more, nothing less.

When things start to get more serious, you become lenient. And Gaz starts to share less and less. The guys never say anything about it, probably assume you dumped his sorry ass. But he's got a ring box back at his apartment. And a photo album of places he wants the wedding to be. Gaz isn't sharing that. Not with most of the bases' thickheaded Sergeants.

But the 141. They're real. They've been with Gaz through everything. Even though he hasn't been able to introduce you, the 141 was first to know about Gaz's commitment. They were the only ones who would see when you send Gaz a video of you in his sweater. Rank and surname plastered on the back. Your hips roll down on a pillow. The sound of music can be heard in the background but it is drowned out by your whimpering. Looking back at the camera there are tears in your eyes.

Gaz sends these videos to the group chat. He anticipates the responses, constantly checking his phone.

'What a sweet girl,' Price replies. Soap sends a string of emojis and even though Ghost is silent. There are photos in the group chat of Ghost watching your videos. Quick pictures that Soap takes when he thinks their C.O isn't watching. You are a very real fixture in their daily conversations. Gaz couldn't help but feel elated by how much the team loves you.

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Price gives Soap and Gaz permission to tail you but they couldn't let it interfere with their work.

“We’ve only got three months to prepare for this mission,” he stresses. “Keep an eye on her but don’t get distracted.” It was a miracle they had been given this long to prepare. Price was determined not to let the mission be compromised. So on that first day, Gaz followed you back to your home. Once they found a day you would be out with friends, he snuck in.

Price trusted Gaz wouldn’t be caught but he knew how the boys got. When they had first found Soap, it was a monumental effort on Price’s end to keep Gaz and Ghost in check. The fact that Ghost had been so restrained since meeting you could be attributed to the mission’s importance. So Gaz knew better than to linger, he couldn’t be away from work for long right now. But every inch of your space looked like a warm memory that had been forgotten. 

Your sweater hangs from a hook on the door. When Gaz looks through your fridge, he sees pre-made meals. Each one well-cooked and stacked away with military precision, like something out of a magazine. The kitchen overlooks a single room, used as a living and dining room. Your couch has clearly been dragged from a second hand shop-its corners dinged or worn. Gaz fits a camera into one of your book shelves. How else would they keep a watchful eye over you?

Home to not just books but also well loved mementos from friends and family. Someone had taken a trip to Paris and bought you a tin sculpture of the eiffel tower. Gaz smiles, sending a picture of your things to the 141’s group-chat. 

‘Get back to work,’ Ghost texts. And Gaz replies with a heart emoji. 

Two more cameras find a home in your potted cactus and the ancient ship in a bottle perched over the TV. Gaz’s eyes lingered on the posters you kept, sure to remember for later. Eventually, he pulls back the curtain that walls off your bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s about the size of an office. Cramped with a bed, dresser and end table. Gaz finds his heart aching to think of you, a member of their team, living in such conditions when the 141 could’ve helped you sooner. He takes another picture, this time saving it for future use.  

From where he stands, Gaz can smell your soap and perfume, lingering thick in old clothes and bedding. Your curtain has been drawn close, so Gaz turns back into the room and flicks on the lights. He laughs softly, before taking another series of pictures to send to the 141’s group chat. Your sheets and blanket match, made out of the same soft cotton. Rows of plush toys were stacked up near your pillows, well loved stuffed animals, dinosaurs and mythical characters. Gaz picks up a toy rabbit, stroking the fabric with his thumb.

'Don't get distracted,' Price had ordered. But Gaz dared him to remain stoic sitting amongst your things.

More cameras are hidden, Gaz finds a space in your dresser. He attaches another on the blades of your fan, facing down on your bed. He’s not ashamed to admit that the 141 don’t have the purest of intentions. But it was the same for Soap when he was recruited and Gaz suspected that it must have been the same for himself. He pokes through your dirty laundry, pocketing some used panties and an extra large sweater. He wears it outside the apartment as he leaves.  

 Habits were mapped, patterns were observed. It wasn't long until they had memorized everywhere you would be throughout the day. The cafe’s that you liked to visit and coworker’s offices that you spent your time in. Gaz was confident that soon he would know where you would be at any time. A constant awareness running in the back of his mind, just like how it was with the rest of the 141.

For now, your daily routine became just another fact of life. The sky is blue, water is clear. You could be found at the base cafeteria everyday at thirteen hundred hours. Facts of life. And once the day ended, after saying good-bye to everyone in your department, you would always make your way to the bases’ parking lot. There were moments when you stood there, wrestling with your keys. Gaz often wondered what it would be like to approach you in that darkness. He pictured himself pressing you against the tiny car’s door. His hands would wrap around the expanse of your waist. The warmth of your skin under Gaz’s hands would be enough to tide him over until his final moments. 

But then your boyfriend, Shawn, would appear. His face pinched tight with exasperation and he’d speak to you roughly. Unyielding hands would wrap around yours, wrestling your keys into the lock. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it,” he simpered. Soap and Gaz knew better than to interfere, at least for now. Any fight between the two of you would work in their favor. But somewhat frustratingly, you never seemed to mind. 

Fortunately Shawn was never able to follow you back home. Leave on base was closely monitored by the C.O’s and security. Shawn would have to stay in the barracks just like everyone else. For a while, that was that. Every afternoon you would drop by the office with another file. Gaz and Soap eagerly waited for your arrival. Conversation between the three of you was easy. Gaz couldn’t remember the last time he had met a civilian that he could speak to with-out misstepping. 

They try to invite you out. 

“Mates and I are going to the bar, you wanna stop by?” 

“That one Sergeants throwing a house party, you wanna come?” 

“Feel like getting lunch, luv?” Each time you turn your team down with the same weak excuses. They don’t know how to draw you out and get to know you better. So they take things slow. 

It was fun too. At first you indulged in passing gossip. Mentioning news from around the base or minor upsets that their C.O’s had caused. Eventually they had managed to coax you into more personal discussions. You were more than happy to talk about the latest books or movies you had enjoyed. Delighted when one of the Sergeants knew about your favorites. After several mentions of a particular TV show that you enjoyed, Soap and Gaz had binged it together one night after work. Later Gaz referenced it in passing and the look on your face was like something holy. Shining with light and beauty. 

When their day is over, the Sergeants watch you leave before returning home. An expansive townhouse that Price keeps near the base. Its interior is sparse, always has been. The 141 scarcely spends time, even when the boys are on leave. Commonly, their time is split between time on base or time at the pub. But Price’s house still exists as a separate ground, mostly for sleep or loud obnoxious sex. 

Tonight, Price has already given the go ahead for Gaz and Soap to return home. They know that Ghost might be there. His recent work on the mission has fizzled out which meant that Price eventually would tell him to get some rest. Knowing him, Gaz suspected that Simon was already home, pretending to relax. Some sad game of solitaire, or a book about the history of guerilla war-fare. And that was after cleaning every weapon in the house. Gaz knew that he had just the thing to cheer him up.

The lights of the house were off. But Ghost’s car was parked underneath the tin-roof awning and their houses’ security was disabled. Soap kicked open the front door with little pageantry. He called out, voice shrill, 

“Henny! Ahm home!” In the beginning, Ghost might have ignored Soap. Or even shouted back for the Sergeant to quiet down. Instead, there was a quiet hum and Ghost walked out of the kitchen. An unloaded gun rested in his hand, shiny with the cleaning solvent. Like an old dog stuck in routine.

Ghost looks at Soap unamused, an expression that Gaz had no difficulty understanding even with the mask on. 

“Gonna get noise complaints from the whole neighborhood,” he said. There was amusement lacing his voice, Gaz knew that Ghost still wasn’t used to the idea of having neighbors to worry about. “Like yer spooky face hasn’t already,” Soap joked and Ghost responded with a slow, dull blink. 

“I finally got the audio on the camera's to work,” Gaz chirped, “You wanna hear the feed?” 

__________________________

In addition to the hidden cameras, your phone was uploaded with a mirroring app. Gaz wasn’t a hundred percent sure how Ghost had managed to get access to your phone. But he had showed up at the house one day looking like a feral dog. Sharp and violent, he presents the imagery to Gaz and Soap with a crooked smile. They’re not sure how your phone ended up in Ghost’s possession long enough for the software to be added but they know better than to ask questions. Now they could see your text messages, search history, apps that you used. There was no part of your life that your team didn’t know about.

Which is why Gaz knows about it when you text, 

‘Feel like dinner tonight?’ 

Shawn responds, 

‘Not with you unfortunately Mates invited me to Nublar I can’t skip it.’ 

‘We haven’t been able to hang out in forever,’ is what you text back. 

‘Can we just raincheck?’ 

‘You said that last time,’ 

‘I don’t know what to tell you, Babe. I can’t go out tonight, what do you want from me?’ 

So Gaz is ready to take advantage of your bad mood. But when you show up, it's like nothing has even happened. The bad mood that they had expected, your anger and frustration, it was missing. The door to their office opened and you walked in carrying a manilla file. Soap looked up, the corners of his lips turning up. A gross leer took over his face, the predatory delight of something fatal. Gaz often recognizes it on his own face, the moment before pulling a trigger. 

“How’s your day been,” Gaz asks, lining up the shot. 

“Good,” you reply with a brief smile. There’s a look of concentration on your face as you lean over the desk to show Soap the differences in this new intel. They're both unashamed to say that they snatched a look at the v-neck cut of your shit. The top of two soft breasts in a skin-tone color bra. 

“Awesome,” Soap mutters and your eyes snap up. 

“Sorry?” You’re smiling as you speak but soft lips are thinned by your confusion. Gaz watches as a red flush grows on Soap’s face. He panics slightly, looking for an excuse. 

“I just mean this new footage is awesome, really great quality.” Gaz wants to laugh at the poor excuse for a lie. But if that horny fucker blew the team's cover, Gaz won't forgive him anytime soon. The flush on Soap’s face has grown worse but you don’t seem to notice. 

Instead, you light up with excitement. 

“Oh my gosh, isn’t it? The department and I have been working really hard to analyze the photogrammetry just right for you guys. File 2-J was really hard for us to measure because of the shadows coming from nearby buildings and-” For once, Gaz is able to follow along to your rant. At certain points he and Soap can even add to the conversation, asking questions or complimenting your hard work. 

So this time when you finish talking, glowing with the same delight that Gaz often finds himself anticipating, he takes another shot at inviting you out. 

“Hey, since it’s Friday, Soap and I were wondering if you wanted to come get a drink with us and the rest of the 141.” You shake your head. 

“Oh no,” sheepish regret tinges your words. “I’m so sorry, I don’t really drink.” 

“Ohhh,” Gaz says. All this time, they had been trying to get you to join them for drinks. It seemed like nothing they had said would peak your interest. But now Gaz knew they would simply have to change gears. 

“That’s no trouble, lass,” Soap told you. “Would ye’ rather, we can all get some coffee after this. Ah I know about this great cafe on fourth street.”

A look of consideration passes over your face. 

“You know what, sure why not?” It wasn’t the whole-hearted yes that Gaz had been hoping for. But there was still time for you to realize your place amongst their team. Their best course of action is to take things slowly. 

“Perfect, luv,” Gaz said with a gentle smile. “We can meet there after work and get a coffee.” Well, you and Soap would get a coffee while Gaz heckled the two of you with his comfortable twenty ounce soy chai tea latte. 

So you return back to work. And Gaz goes back to helping Soap plan out the mission. But once the day ends, they head out to a small local cafe named the Spotted Toad. It’s artistic and pretentious. They don’t even charge Gaz extra when he orders the non-dairy option. 

You’ve dawned a long black leather jacket. A fresh coat of make-up has been applied which does nothing but cause Gaz and Soap to preen. There’s a small cup of saffron latte in your hands because the barista had recommended it as a house speciality. 

“How’s that taste,” Soap teased but you just smirked at him. 

“Tastes perfectly delicious. Not that you’d know.” He had opted for a simple pour-over, dark roast. Darker than a Highlands’ night. 

“Would it kill you to enjoy some sweetness in life,” you had teased after Soap had disavowed all sugar and cream offered. 

“Ah can think o’ plenty o’ things that bring me some sweetness in life.” He looks at you, a killer’s sharpness to his words. Instead of fleeing like you should have, a furrow of amusement erodes through beautiful features. 

“Training and working doesn’t count,” you tease. And that’s fair, it seems like any time they seem to catch a moment with you they’re busy. Captain and Ghost weren’t even able to meet with you today. 

But once this deployment is finished and Laswell grants the team their leave, they focus on well and truly romancing you. 

“We do things off base,” Gaz insists. Mainly watching you and fucking. But they still had a life outside of work. 

“Oh yeah?” You smile, there is a daring look on your face. “Tell me about it. I’ve been sitting here all day talking about myself.” You look at the boys, “But what do you guys like to do?” 

Maybe they do struggle to answer. It’s possible that the first thing that Gaz thought of was target practice. Nobody would know if Soap had to stop himself from telling you about the intricacies of demolition. They were sure the Captain and Ghost would have the same response. 

“I don’t mind if you guys want to talk about work,” was what you say after a moment of silence. How endearing it was, your smile. The knowing look in your eyes. 

“I work on the same base, I’ve been working on the same mission.” You tap the bottom of your paper cup thoughtfully. “I might be one of the only civilians you’re allowed to discuss parts of work with.” Gaz finds himself resisting the urge to reach out and kiss you. Soft plush lips that he can just picture parted with a sweet moan. 

He wonders if you’ve noticed yet. The long-hungry looks your team keeps sending you way. Maybe there’s a faint reflection from the lens of their cameras that you’ve only noticed subconsciously. Is it possible that you’ve made some kind of connection to the sweater that he’s seen you look for desperately and the one Gaz is wearing now.

 An inkling of fear that you’re trying your best to rationally ignore. He leans in closer and he knows that your eyes wander. Despite the impassive look you wear on your face most of the time, he’s seen the smallest of reactions. And that’s enough.  

_________________

It’s been hours and you’re still there. Gaz can’t believe how lucky they are. At some point you’ve ordered a mint tea which prompted the three of you to bicker about the merits of coffee versus tea. 

“Yer American,” Soap had hissed, “Ye all enjoy coffee over tea. It’s historical.” 

“It’s too late for coffee,” you explain looking down at your phone clock. 

“That’s why there’s decaf,” he scoffs, completely ignoring Gaz’s attempts to defend a “good cuppa.” 

With the mint tea comes a lemon cookie that you sweetly break into threes. 

“Do either of you guys have any allergies,” you ask, placing the cookie on a flattened napkin. 

“Nothing in that cookie,” Soap replies before snagging a piece. He thanks you with a pathetic besotted look on his face that Gaz is sure could be found on his own. Before he has the chance to propose, a look of shock crosses over your face. 

“Is that Ghost,” you ask. You’re looking somewhere over Soap’s shoulder. It's pretty hard to mistake a civilian for their lieutenant. But Ghost has sworn that he would be busy with paperwork until late tonight. Gaz’ head whipped around to see where you’re staring and sure enough, Ghost is lingering near the door. His regular skull print mask has been switched out for a plain balaclava. But Ghost was a person that could be recognized in darkness. You wave him over with a silly grin. His piercing eyes assess the room, before falling into the natural pull of his team’s gravity. 

Ghost walks over, pulling up a spare chair to sit knee to knee with Soap. You seem to track the familiarity and it does a little to comfort tension that Gaz wasn’t aware you were holding. Ghost smirks, his eyes pinching together with amusement. You must think you’re safe. The men you’ve found yourself in the company of appear to hold no interest in women but soon you will see how wrong you were. There is no one more important in the 141’s life than the rest of the 141. 

He sits at the table silent and you continue speaking as if he had always been there. 

“But so the creator of that one show we watched wanted to do a spin-off. And instead of doing a direct sequel they decided to make a-” once again you happily ramble. It is nice the sense of presence you bring. Before, Gaz would have finished his work for the day and hit the gym. If Soap wanted to, they would hit a bar and then go home. 

It’s not that the 141 weren’t crazy about each other. Off-base, on-base, deployed or on leave, they meshed together. Johnny sketched the others with loving detail, confessing his undying love in unique and earnest ways. Simon knows everything about his team-mates to a degree that is unhealthy, definitely illegal. Price would do anything if only his team asked. 

Sometimes Gaz didn’t know what to do with all that affection directed his way. 

But you encouraged the team in ways that they couldn’t before. Here they were, sitting around a table-top drinking from steaming cups. A lemon cookie divided, shared like an act of love. It wasn’t until nightfall that you needed to take your leave. 

“Oh, Shawn is calling,” you say. “He always needs a ride after going out.” 

Gaz wants to stand up and pull you in closer. He wants to follow after you and punch Shawn’s teeth out. Instead, he watches you collect your purse and bluster out the door. Very briefly, you call out, “It was nice seeing you guys again, have a good day.” You wave absently before holding the phone up to your ear and start hissing frantically. The tea you were drinking is still sitting on the table, letting out a gentle plume of steam.  

As soon as the door slams shut behind you, Ghost lets out a rough chuckle. 

“Fucking wanker,” he hisses, taking a swig from your cup. He pulls out his phone, producing a folder of screen-shots. Gaz recognizes the images as the mirroring program on your phone. And pages from Shawn’s instagram story. When Ghost finds what he’s looking for, he pushes the phone toward Soap and Gaz. A video starts playing with staticy audio that Gaz has to strain his ears to hear. 

“Hold on-” Shawn is heard saying. “I just-” There’s another male voice speaking, rough with false bravado. “No,” another voice says. There’s a murmuring sound, voices speaking in a hushed whisper. Finally they can hear Shawn’s voice become audible. “I have to tell my girlfriend first, don't worry.” He pauses to listen, “What? No. She doesn’t care what I do just so long as I text her once in a while. I’d call her clingy but it seems like she could care less what I do.” Finally Ghosts’ video cuts off, leaving the three of them in silence. 

“Right,” Soap finally says. “So what are we gonna do about it?”  

He tells the entire team about you, like a parent showing baby pictures. It's just a constant stream of just the most benign candid shots of his woman. During training he shows Soap a picture of you drinking coffee. When finishing up paperwork, he corners Price into watching a video of you making dinner. Gaz is too nice to deny Ghost when he whips out a photo of you dressed in soft clothes that compliment your sweet features.

At first none of them noticed how odd the pictures were. You never seem to look into the camera, focus drawn always to something else. There's such a natural look on your face like Ghost has captured you in a moment, outside of the regular posing for a camera. There's a picture in his wallet of just you sleeping in bed.

It was probably Soap who first noticed-but he can't be sure that Price doesn't know and simply doesn't care. It's just, one morning Ghost proudly shared another picture. This time, you were walking along the street. Sensible heels, soft crewneck sweater, tucked into a pair of women's formal pants.

The photo has clearly been taken across the street, there are many people between you and the photographer. That's not unusual but today Soap notices that in this picture there is an intense look of terror in your eyes. A fear of whoever is pointing their lens in your direction.

Soap asks about it, he's much to curious about his C.O's private life.

"Your bird looks ready to run," he murmurs, "Better keep a good grip on her." It doesn't sound as funny as Soap had intended it to be. Not like the way it was in his head. But instead of being offended, an odd look sparks in Ghost's eyes.

"She couldn't even if she tried," he replies, with that familiar profane humor in his voice.

In the next couple of days, the photos that Ghost shows Soap escalate in tone. He's seen plenty of the normal deployment pictures. Guys with a partner back home are more than happy to flash their gifts. Lingerie, sex toys, tit pics, full nudes. Soap has seen more than he'd admit to in polite company.

But Ghost brings an odd collection. You're not articulated into a performance of sex. Nothing lurid or dirty. Instead, Ghost arrives at training with his phone. He swipes through another collection and this time, you're missing articles of clothing. You're perched on your couch, watching a movie in a baggy t-shirt with nothing underneath. There's a close-up of you brushing your teeth with a towel slung low on your waist. He's even shown a video of you undressing, pulling on a swimsuit over your beautiful figure.

"Isn't she fit," Soap says with a whistle, trying to act casual. It's a difficult situation to be in, he's seen more than he should. And likes it more than he can admit.

"Careful," Ghost snarls. He swipes to another picture and honestly, how can he say something like that to Soap and then pull out this video. It's hard to make out the details, the entire room is dark, audio is shit. But there's a faint buzzing noise, something mechanical that makes Soap's ears prick.

"Sir," he hisses. But Ghost doesn't respond. The person holding the camera shifts. It's clear now, the camera man is peaking out through the crack in a door. The lens is focused on you but it's clear that your mind is elsewhere. Propped up against satin pillows, you look down at your phone. One hand is under the cover, moving gently up and down. There's a look of pure bliss on your face, eyes rolled back and brows furled.

After a moment you shift, changing footing to get a better angle. The blanket falls back revealing your entire body. Soft skin and curved joints. Two fingers work in and out of your cunt, pressing deeper. A wet squelching sound does its best to break through the terrible feedback of Ghost's shitty camera. You sink all the way down to flat on your back, crying out as the angle changes again.

Soap can't stare for long-even if it's an effort to pull away his eyes. No, there's something more alarming that draws Soap's attention. Near the foot of your bed there hangs a large gold bordered mirror. The angle is just right for Soap to see who is recording in the reflection. Its Ghost, no denying the man's impossible form. He leans down, through the door's crack. A camera's light blinking illuminates the white in his white mark.

"Sir," Soap hisses again. But Ghost is already pulling back. He looks just as stern and smug as ever, awful bastard.

"Careful, Sergeant," he says. The phone goes back in his pocket. Soap closes his eyes, willing away dark shame and arousal. He would rather pretend like nothing happened than expose their shared sick fascination with your oblivious exposure. Sweet soft skin, vulnerable sex. His teeth itch and Soap wonders what it would be like to find a girl of his own. Someone like you. Someone that Ghost isn't holding so covetously with dragon's greed.

Soap had been selected for the 141 above hundreds of other potential candidates. Both more experienced and skilled. But he could confidently say he was the SAS’s best demolitions expert. He had a nerve of steel and more resolve than half of the people enlisted. Once, Soap had asked Gaz what had made the team decide to choose him above everyone else. The other Sergeant had got a vague look in his eyes before replying, 

‘We knew it the moment we saw you.’ 

And for a while, that was that. Soap did his job. Well. He survived Las Almas and other international missions. Slowly, he had come to realize how close the rest of his team was. At first Soap worried how he would come to fit in. But the others never hesitated, he was a part of their team. Not just on paper but a real team. 

The rest of their lives would be connected and Soap had come to love them. He didn’t need to understand why the 141 had chosen him. He was just grateful that they had. Forever the course of life had changed and years went by, attached at the hip with Gaz, Price and Ghost. It wasn’t long before he forgot about the hows and whys. Until he saw you. 

There was nothing inherently different about the little technician he saw walking around base. Most of the office’s civilian women were formally-dressed and severe. They never gave Soap the time of day, except for the occasional lingering glances. And you were no different. Dressed in comfortable but tasteful clothes. Your make-up was designed to pronounce the features instead of cover. But there was a look of contempt marring your perfect face. 

But Soap knew from the moment he first saw you. Soft, clean and a civilian to boot. Still a member of the 141 nonetheless. Immediately Soap followed you back to the bases’ office complex. You didn’t seem to notice your tail, and carried on until reaching a cramped room. On the door was a bronze plaque displaying your name and title. Soap watched you enter, closing the door with a gentle click. He salivated at the thought of following after you and affirming his belief. 

He knew what you were and where you belonged. Soap quickly walked back to the barracks, determined to share what he knew with Gaz. That next day, they watched you cross the base again. Today, wobbling on six inch heels in a white colored sheath dress. Gaz’s eyes flicked up and down your body, lingering on the curve of your eyes. Soap didn’t have to wait long before his hopes were confirmed. 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah?” Soap laughed, clapping his partner on the back. “Ah just knew it, man. First moment Ah saw her.” 

He looked back over to you, cutting through a stream of privates. At first they tried to block your path. Not on purpose but out of sheer indifference but your confident gait pierced through their numbers. Gaz whistled gently, shielding his eyes to watch you walk into the sunlight. 

“Have you spoken to her yet,” he asked. Soap pursed his lips, “Not yet. Thought I’d wait until ya’ confirmed it.” Gaz nodded, looking away from your silhouette. “She was coming from the mess. We can start there tomorrow, see if we can’t bump into her.” 

Soap met with Gaz earlier in the day, following him to their regular spot in the commissary. They scanned through a crowd of people, looking for you. It was Gax who first caught your eye. He elbowed Soap and smiled when you acknowledged him. Instead of walking over, like they had predicted-you nodded and left. 

There was food trash on your plate but none of it was from the cafeteria. Everything had been brought from home, including a bright cookie wrapper. Soap mentally filed that away, along with the color of your eyes and the jewelry that you wore. (Thankfully there was no wedding band, not that it would stop the 141.) 

“Tomorrow,” Gaz decided, “We can go over and speak to her.” 

But before the day was over, Soap and Gaz saw you again. With their deployment to Romania upcoming, they had been working on pre-mission surveillance. Long hours were spent filing through personnel files and city lay-outs. SAS’s other task force that 141 was partnering with had spent the past week researching their own angle of the mission. Today, Gaz and Soap were going through their intel. 

Gentlemen,” the task force's lieutenant said, “I’m having more digital imagery run over.” He was in a hurry to run to the next meeting. Meaning Soap and Gaz would be left on their own. “Someone from your surveillance unit will be running over with the files.” The man pulled on his jacket, leaving without further word. It was shortly after that the door opened and you walked in. 

“Hello,” you said. There is a thick manilla folder tucked under your arm. “Lt. Forche told me you needed the satellite imagery from Cluj?” Soap’s head snapped up and he smiled. 

“Hello, lass.” In response you slowly blinked, 

“Are you Sergeant MacTavish or Sergeant Garrick?” From where he sat, Gaz called out, “I’m Garrick. Kyle Garrick. But my friends call me Gaz.” You walk in, setting the folder down on the table. “I’ve been told to inform you two that I will be working closely on this mission going forward.” The tone of your voice is flat and with-out inflection. Through-out the conversation you sound bored, but still determined to be polite. 

Gently, Soap tries to coax your attention. 

“We’ll be glad to work with ye,” he said with a smile. “Grateful for any help ye’ can give us.” His words seem to have an effect and a flash of amusement crosses your face. 

“I’m just working on a computer,” you admonish. “The two of you are actually out there on the field.” 

“It feels like one big vacation for the most part,” Gaz laughs. 

“A paid vacation to Romania,” you replied. “But with-out the sight-seeing, or historical tours or food tasting..” 

“Are ye’ interested in that,” Soap asked. 

A look of confusion flashes across your face. 

“Me? I-” you chuckled, “Who doesn’t want to travel.” Soap thought back to all the moments he wished to stay home with the 141, the thought of travel little more than a bad-dream. But with you and the rest of his team, Soap was sure he could manage. 

“Where would you go,” Gaz asked, his chin cradled in his hand. “Besides Romania?” 

“Maybe Scotland,” there is something wistful in your eyes, “Take a quick week-trip and visit all the big touristy places.” 

Soap opens his mouth to reply but you’ve already moved to open the door. 

“It was nice meeting you guys,” is all he hears before you’re gone. When he looks over to Gaz there is a love-struck look in his eyes. 

“Tomorrow,” Soap asks. 

“Forche mentioned that he would try to get a tech to work with us for the rest of the week.” Gaz goes back to their paperwork, “We’ll see her again.” 

Over the next couple days you stop by with more satellite photography. Each time they coax you into a conversation. About work, your schooling, plans for the weekend. At one point they had managed to coax you into talking for thirty-minutes straight. Soap had no idea how it started but before he knew it you were rambling about the history of European bread-making.   

“Ah shit,” you said, “I’m sorry, I got side-tracked.” You stood up, once again leaving in a hurry. 

Eventually Soap and Gaz were confident enough to tell the others about you. Saturday had rolled around and Price finally had a free moment to get a drink. The four of them sat in a booth, leaning close into one another. Soap was practically sitting in Ghost’s lap. 

“She’s real,” Gaz said, nursing his beer. “Soap and I have been talking to her for a while. We know it’s the real thing.” Price seemed skeptical, he trusted Gaz well enough. But he worried that Soap might have gotten worked up and dragged the other Sergeant into a passing fancy. 

“We’ll need to meet her,” Price answered. He rolled his neck, feeling his stress bubble. Ghost remained silent, indifferent unless prompted. 

“She’s working on our Romania mission, Forche has had her dropping off the satellite photography,” Gaz reported. 

“Well tomorrow I can drop by and take a look myself,” Price hummed. He took another deep drag of his beer. “But I don’t want-” before he can finish his sentence a woman approaches their table. 

“Soap? Gaz?” The entire table look up and found you standing next to an unfamiliar man. Surly and tense. His face is covered in bruises-the kind worn by fighters. With his close-cropped hair and rigid posture it is clear that he's military.

You between Soap and Gaz with a smile on your face. There is a man’s jacket draped over your shoulders, covering the thin dress that you wore. Price’s eyes lingered, before flicking to the man at your side. You introduce yourself, and then the tag-along. 

“This is my boyfriend-”

“Sergeant Mallory,” Ghost said. His voice a deep rumble. 

The man stiffens, his blank face pinching with irritation. 

“Lieutenant,” he replies. You look at him and then turn back to the table, “Uh, yes. This is Shawn. He’s working with the task-force that’s joining you guys in Romania.” You linger for a second and Soap can tell that you’re about to say good-bye.

He knows that these things take time and patience but God does he want to be closer to you. Press up against your side-without a hanging boyfriend. Soap ogles the way your dress sits on your figure. He's always sad to see you go but tonight just seems unjustly cruel. Instead, Gaz quickly invites you and Shawn to sit by your side. 

Ghost doesn’t move from where he sits on the booth’s end. But you waste no time ducking under the table, dragging Shawn after you. In the end, Gaz and Price sandwiched the couple between the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn tried to say. He looks uncomfortable, itching to leave or bite someones head off.

But Soap was already leaning across Gaz to speak with you in earnest.  

“Ye’ look stunnin’ tonight,” he cooed. Not even the elbow that Ghost roughly shoved in Soap’s stomach did anything to deter him. 

“Did you get anything to eat,” Gaz asked. He was already reaching for the menu to order food. 

“Oh no,” you say. “Shawn and I just got here.” You look at your boyfriend, who has already given up on convincing you to leave. He's turned and started to speak with Price about the bases’ administration. 

“Date night,” Ghost asks. He is determined to poke at you, ready to see what has drawn Soap and Gaz’s attention.  

You do not seem offended or embarrassed by his words like Soap would have expected. A happy flush crosses over your cheeks and you reply, “We’re just stopping for a sec but Shawn’s going to take me to Capriotti’s.” A higher end italian restaurant that Soap had seen couples post about on Instagram. He chews on his lip instead of confessing to an undying fealty to you and his other partners.   

“You look absolutely fit,” Gaz tells you. He’s trying to push past Soap’s weight. 

“Oh thank you,” the end of your fingers come up to pinch your dress’ neckline, pulling it up. Even Ghost watches the action with forlorn longing. “I try to dress up when I can.” At that moment, Shawn cuts in and says to you, 

“The Captain wants to know about your progress with the mission.” 

You look over to Price and smile. “Oh! This has got to be one of the best surveillance jobs I’ve worked.” The Captain’s gaze seems to sharpen as you speak. It turns pointed when he asks, 

“The boys aren’t working you too hard, yeah?” 

“Of course not, Captain,” Soap protests.

“They’re so nice,” you confirm. “Your men have been taking time out of their day to get to know me and how they can help with my job.” The smile on your face is nearly blinding. 

The Captain nods, self-assured. He turns back to Shawn and adds, 

“We’re glad to have you and Forche’s men here for this. These kinds of missions don’t usually give us the opportunity to touch base with allies beforehand.” 

“Your guy's base is quite a ways away,” Ghost adds. He looks at you with narrow eyes, “How’s long distance been treating you two?” 

You shrug, seemingly indifferent to the question. But Shawn can tell how inappropriate Ghost's words were. He bristles, offended, looking to the Captain for support. But Price is only amused by Ghost’s lack of tact. 

“It’s not so bad,” you tell him, “I’ve moved around alot so I’m used to longer car-rides.” You begin to ramble about England transportation versus America. It seems like there's no end to what you want to say. The 141 is content to listen to you ramble for several, long minutes.

Eventually Shawn flexes his jaw, “Hey, babe?” 

“Yeah,” you look over and smile. 

“Would you be a love and go fetch me a beer?” Quickly you dart under the table, crawling on hands and knees. 

After you’re gone Shawn leans in to whisper conspiratorially. 

“I’m sorry guys. You all have been very nice already. My girlfriend can be kind of a handful for other people, she’s autistic and she doesn’t know when she’s overstepping.” Price clears his throat, “Oh we’ve had no problem.” Something hard comes into his tone, “We’re not the type to worry about that.” 

Shawn bares his teeth in a smile. When you return with his favorite brand Shawn coos softly. 

“Thanks babe.” He leans across the table, taking the pint and chugging it down with one swig. “We should hurry if we want to make our reservations.” Shawn turned over to Gaz, tapping his leg. The rest of the booth goes to clear out, with Ghost standing up. He and Soap leave to go order from the bar. When Gaz finally slides out, you go to say good-bye. The words are scarcely out of your mouth before Shawn takes your arm and pulls. 

“Bye,” you tell Price and he waves with a warm smile. 

As he watches you leave, Gaz scoots back onto the booth. He looks over to Price, waiting for his final judgment. 

“It’s…” Price chews on his lip. “Ok.” 

“Ok?” Ghost walks up to the table with pints in hand. “You think so?” Soap looks between Ghost and Price with anticipation. But he’s waiting for the C.O’s words of acceptance. Even though he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were the real thing. 

“I’m saying ok,” Price tells Ghost. “And I think you agree with me. She’s sound and I think a good addition to our dynamic.” 

“That’s it,” Gaz says with a smile. 

“Come on, Captain,” Soap says. “You can admit you thought she was cute.” Price waves his hand, “None of that’s important.” He points to Ghost and asks, “I just need to know if you trust her.” Ghost pulls the bottom of his mask up and drinks from his pint. Instead of replying he sits beside Soap and pulls out his phone.