Who's Taking Care of You?

It had been eleven days.

Eleven days since Task Force 141 had been released from medical observation with a collection of prescriptions, restrictions, follow-up appointments, and explicit instructions to rest.

Eleven days since four highly trained soldiers had apparently decided that recovery was something that happened to other people.

There had been arguments about medication.

Arguments about showers.

Arguments about stairs.

Arguments about whether making coffee counted as strenuous activity.

One particularly memorable argument had involved Ghost, a laundry basket, and the phrase I can carry the fucking thing with one arm.

Soap had nearly reopened his stitches twice.

Gaz had discovered that saying I'm just stretching my leg did not magically transform walking around the house into physiotherapy.

Price had somehow acquired paperwork after it had already been confiscated.

Twice.

Keeping Task Force 141 alive on deployment was difficult.

Keeping Task Force 141 alive in their own home was beginning to feel statistically less likely.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, something had changed.

Quietly.

Gradually.

Enough that none of them noticed at first.

Meals appeared.

Prescriptions got collected.

Follow-up appointments remained organized.

Groceries existed.

Coffee somehow kept happening.

Bandages appeared when somebody needed them.

The house remained vaguely functional despite four men simultaneously attempting to destroy its structural integrity through sheer stubbornness.

And {{user}} kept moving.

That was normal.

They were a soldier too.

They understood long days.

They understood exhaustion.

They understood pushing through.

Which was perhaps why it took four professional observers an embarrassingly long time to notice what was directly in front of them.

Gaz noticed first.

Of course he did.

The front door opened sometime after sunset.

He was stretched along the sofa with his injured leg elevated on two cushions, a book forgotten against his chest and the television murmuring quietly in the background.

Price occupied the armchair nearby.

He had been asleep.

Or pretending not to be.

The glasses slipping down his nose and the closed folder on his lap suggested he'd lost that particular battle sometime in the last twenty minutes.

Ghost sat at the dining table cleaning absolutely nothing because all weapons had already been cleaned twice.

He was dismantling a pen.

Apparently boredom had finally claimed another victim.

Soap was on the floor.

Not because he had fallen.

Because he'd been told he wasn't allowed to do push-ups, so he had decided lying on the rug dramatically was an acceptable substitute.

Gaz looked toward the doorway.

His expression changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

“Alright?”

Price's eyes opened.

Ghost stopped dismantling the pen.

Soap lifted his head from the carpet.

Four sets of eyes settled on {{user}}.

Silence.

Then Soap pushed himself upright.

Too quickly.

His face tightened.

Ghost immediately pointed at him.

“Slow.”

Soap waved him off without looking away from {{user}}.

“I'm fine.”

Three voices answered simultaneously.

“No.”

Soap blinked.

“Wasn't even talkin' about me.”

Price removed his glasses.

His gaze remained fixed toward the doorway.

The sleepiness disappeared from his expression.

Captain again.

Not the hard-edged battlefield version.

Something quieter.

More familiar.

“Long day?”

Ghost's attention moved downward.

Whatever {{user}} had brought home with them apparently offended him personally.

He stood.

Price looked over.

“Simon.”

“Walking.”

“You're supposed to be resting.”

“Across the room.”

“Still counts.”

Ghost ignored him.

A few careful strides carried him toward the doorway.

His good hand reached out.

Palm up.

No explanation.

No demand.

Just an expectation that whatever {{user}} was carrying didn't need to remain their problem.

Soap watched.

Then looked at Gaz.

Gaz looked at Soap.

Something passed between them.

Gaz closed his book.

“When'd they eat?”

Soap's eyebrows pulled together.

“Dunno.”

Price's gaze sharpened.

“When did we last see them eat?”

Silence.

Soap thought about it.

Gaz thought about it.

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

Price's expression became increasingly displeased.

Soap finally spoke.

“Breakfast?”

Gaz shook his head.

“That was me.”

“Lunch?”

“You ate their crisps.”

Soap looked offended.

“They said I could have those.”

“No, you asked whether anyone was eating them and then interpreted silence as consent.”

“Legally binding.”

“Johnny.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Price was already pushing himself upright.

His injured side protested.

He ignored it.

Ghost noticed.

“Sit.”

Price gave him a look.

“You're standing.”

“Wasn't talking about me.”

Gaz stared between them.

“Oh, brilliant. We're doing this again.”

Price made it approximately one step before Ghost planted his good hand against the captain's shoulder.

“Sit.”

“Simon.”

“I've got this.”

“You've got cracked ribs.”

“You've got stitches.”

Soap raised a finger from the floor.

“I've got—”

“No,” Gaz said.

Soap lowered his finger.

“Rude.”

Gaz carefully shifted his injured leg from the cushions.

Price noticed immediately.

“And where exactly are you going?”

“Kitchen.”

“No.”

“Someone needs to make food.”

“You're not standing on that leg.”

“I can stand.”

“You limp.”

“You've got stitches.”

“Ghost has cracked ribs.”

From the doorway came a flat:

“Leave me out of it.”

Gaz stared at him.

“You started it.”

Soap suddenly brightened.

“I can cook.”

Every head in the room turned toward him.

Soap's expression fell.

“Fuck all of you.”

“The pancake is still stuck to the ceiling,” Gaz reminded him.

“One time.”

“It was three days ago.”

“And nobody's explained how it got there,” Price added.

Soap pointed accusingly toward the kitchen.

“Structural anomaly.”

Ghost looked at the ceiling.

“Gravity.”

“Traitor.”

The bickering lasted approximately another ten seconds.

Then Price looked toward {{user}} again.

And stopped.

Whatever he'd been about to say disappeared.

His expression softened.

The others followed his gaze.

The room went quiet.

There were certain kinds of exhaustion soldiers knew intimately.

The exhaustion after an operation.

The exhaustion of adrenaline finally burning itself out.

The exhaustion that came from too many hours awake, too much equipment, too much noise, too many decisions.

And then there was the quieter kind.

The kind that accumulated.

One small thing at a time.

One responsibility.

Then another.

Then another.

Until carrying everything became so normal that nobody noticed how heavy it had gotten.

Gaz's face fell slightly.

“Shit.”

Soap stopped smiling.

Ghost looked around the room.

At the blankets.

The medication organized on the table.

The mugs that had been washed.

The takeaway menus stacked neatly beside the phone.

Then back toward {{user}}.

His jaw tightened.

Price exhaled slowly.

Eleven days.

Eleven fucking days of being looked after.

And somehow four men whose entire profession depended upon noticing details had missed one sitting directly in front of them.

Price leaned back into the chair.

Not because he particularly wanted to.

Because suddenly this was no longer about whether he wanted to rest.

“Right.”

That tone.

Gaz recognized it immediately.

So did Soap.

Ghost's eyes shifted toward him.

Price pointed toward the sofa.

“New plan.”

Soap scrambled to his feet.

Gaz stared.

“What are you doing?”

“New plan.”

“You don't know the plan.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm helping.”

“You're limping.”

“Emotionally.”

“You're physically limping.”

“Multitasking.”

Ghost made a sound that might have been a laugh.

Price ignored them.

His attention remained on {{user}}.

“Sit.”

Soap's head snapped around.

“Oh, we're couch arresting them.”

Price frowned.

“We're not calling it that.”

“We called it that when it was us.”

“You called it that.”

“Because it's catchy.”

Gaz started getting up again.

Price pointed at him without looking.

“Stay.”

Gaz froze halfway upright.

“But—”

“Your leg.”

“I can—”

“Kyle.”

Gaz sat back down.

He looked deeply offended by the hypocrisy.

Ghost took whatever he had relieved {{user}} of and set it safely aside.

Then he returned.

“Boots.”

Soap immediately looked delighted.

“Yes.”

Ghost glanced at him.

“What?”

“I wanted to do the boots.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Feels helpful.”

“You can barely use one arm.”

“I've got teeth.”

Gaz stared at him.

“Do not remove anybody's boots with your teeth.”

Soap considered this.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

“For once in your life, MacTavish, listen to Garrick.”

“Fine.”

Soap wandered toward the kitchen instead.

Price's head snapped up.

“Where are you going?”

“Food.”

“No cooking.”

“Wasn't gonna cook.”

“That pause was suspicious.”

“I'll make a sandwich.”

“You tried to fry ham yesterday.”

“It improved it.”

“You set off the alarm.”

“That alarm's oversensitive.”

Gaz called after him.

“Cold food only!”

Soap raised his good hand.

“Fascists.”

Ghost finally lowered himself onto the sofa with careful control.

His ribs clearly disliked the motion.

He said nothing about it.

Instead, he pulled one of the blankets free.

Price watched him.

“Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

Gaz smiled.

A few minutes later Soap returned carrying what could generously be described as a meal assembled by a man forbidden from using heat.

Sandwich.

Fruit.

Crisps.

A chocolate bar.

Two biscuits.

And, for reasons known only to Soap, a juice box.

Gaz stared at the collection.

“Are they twelve?”

“Balanced meal.”

“Chocolate isn't a food group.”

“Morale is.”

Price looked at the juice box.

Soap immediately became defensive.

“It was in the fridge.”

“Why?”

“Dunno.”

Ghost took the tray from him before the debate could escalate.

Soap dropped onto the sofa.

Then immediately shifted because his injury objected.

Then shifted again.

Then swore.

Then finally settled.

Gaz grabbed the remote.

The television changed from whatever forgotten program had been playing to the streaming menu.

Price watched the operation unfold around him.

Four injured men.

Not one currently capable of taking care of another person without violating at least one medical instruction.

Yet apparently that wasn't going to stop them.

His expression softened again.

“You've been doing too much.”

There was no accusation in it.

Only recognition.

Price's voice became quieter.

“We should've noticed.”

Gaz nodded.

“Yeah.”

Soap's usual grin was gone.

“Should've.”

Ghost leaned back carefully.

“Notice now.”

Simple.

Blunt.

Very Simon.

Price looked toward him.

Then back toward {{user}}.

“Exactly.”

Soap reached for the biggest blanket.

Gaz immediately grabbed the other end.

“Don't steal it.”

“Wasn't.”

“You were.”

“Sharing.”

“You were pulling the entire thing toward yourself.”

“Preparatory sharing.”

Ghost took it from both of them.

“Children.”

Soap gasped.

“You steal blankets every night.”

“No proof.”

“There are four witnesses!”

Price sighed.

“Can we manage ten minutes without arguing?”

“No,” Gaz said.

Soap answered at the exact same time.

“Probably not.”

Ghost shrugged.

Price stared at them.

Then laughed.

Quietly at first.

Tired.

Warm.

The sort of laugh that belonged nowhere near a battlefield.

The sort that only existed here.

At home.

Eventually the blanket was distributed.

The food stayed within reach.

The remote changed hands twice.

Soap immediately began lobbying for a terrible film.

Gaz rejected it.

Ghost vetoed Soap's second choice without explanation.

Price threatened to select a documentary again.

Three voices told him to fuck off.

And somewhere inside all that noise, four stubborn patients rearranged themselves around the person who had spent nearly two weeks rearranging everything around them.

No grand gesture.

No dramatic speech.

Just room made on the sofa.

Food within reach.

A blanket pulled close.

Work abandoned.

Phones ignored.

Bodies carefully pressed together despite bruises and stitches and aching muscles.

A hand offered.

A shoulder available.

A home that could hold all five of them.

Price finally settled back.

His eyes moved across his team.

His family.

Then toward {{user}}.

His voice was gentle.

But the captain's authority remained unmistakable.

“Whatever needs doing can wait.”

Ghost gave a quiet grunt of agreement.

Gaz nodded.

Soap leaned back into the cushions.

Price's mouth curved beneath his moustache.

“Tonight, love...”

He gestured toward the absolute disaster of injured soldiers surrounding the sofa.

“...you're resting with the rest of us.”

Soap lifted one finger.

“Technically, we're very experienced at it now.”

Ghost stared at him.

“No, we're not.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“You climbed onto the kitchen counter yesterday.”

“Needed a mug.”

Gaz groaned.

“It begins.”

Price closed his eyes.

“Christ.”

And just like that, the intervention dissolved into another argument.

But nobody reached for work.

Nobody got up.

And for the first time in eleven days—

nobody was taking care of everyone else alone.

0300 Hours

Three seventeen in the morning had a particular kind of silence.

The house didn't usually achieve it.

Not anymore.

Not with five people living under one roof, four of whom had spent most of their adult lives learning how to sleep lightly enough that a floorboard creaking two rooms away could pull them awake.

But tonight, the rain had settled into a quiet rhythm against the windows.

The heating hummed.

The hallway remained dark.

And downstairs, one small light glowed above the kitchen stove.

Ghost sat beneath it.

Alone.

Mostly.

A mug of tea sat untouched between his hands.

A blanket had been dragged downstairs with him and wrapped loosely around his shoulders, covering the old black T-shirt he'd slept in. His skull balaclava remained upstairs, abandoned somewhere beside the bed.

At this hour, in this house, surrounded by people who already knew every scar beneath it—

he hadn't bothered.

The bruising along his ribs had faded from violent purple into ugly yellow-green over the last several days.

Better.

Technically.

Didn't fucking feel like it tonight.

Ghost shifted carefully in the chair.

Pain pulled beneath his ribs.

He stopped.

Waited.

Breathed.

The doctor had warned him about this.

Healing wasn't linear.

Some days would be better than others.

Activity would catch up eventually.

Sleeping wrong could make everything ache again.

Ghost had listened.

Then apparently decided medical advice applied primarily to other people.

The kitchen chair creaked beneath him.

He stared into his tea.

“Fuckin' stupid.”

Whether he meant the injury, himself, or the fact that he'd been sitting there for twenty minutes refusing to take the painkillers sitting six inches from his hand was unclear.

Probably all three.

A floorboard creaked.

Ghost's head lifted immediately.

Old instincts.

His shoulders tensed.

Then relaxed.

This house had its own sounds now.

Its own footsteps.

Its own breathing.

Its own people.

He knew them.

The doorway was no longer empty.

Ghost's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“Didn't mean to wake you.”

His voice was rough with exhaustion.

No mask.

No radio.

No lieutenant.

Just Simon, sitting beneath the stove light at three in the fucking morning with a blanket around his shoulders.

He glanced toward the medication on the table.

Then away.

“Ribs are being cunts.”

A pause.

“Technical diagnosis.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then another floorboard creaked upstairs.

Ghost closed his eyes.

“No.”

Slow footsteps came down the stairs.

“No, no, no—”

Gaz appeared in the doorway wearing sleep shorts, a hoodie, and one sock.

Only one.

His hair was flattened on one side.

He blinked at Ghost.

Then toward {{user}}.

Then back at Ghost.

“What're we doing?”

“Sleeping.”

Gaz stared.

Ghost stared back.

Gaz gestured around the kitchen.

“Interesting choice of venue.”

“Go back upstairs.”

“You first.”

“Can't.”

The answer came too quickly.

Gaz's expression changed.

Ghost immediately regretted it.

“Simon.”

“Don't.”

Gaz looked toward the untouched medication.

Understanding arrived.

“Oh.”

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You're about to.”

“I was going to ask whether you've taken those.”

“That's saying something.”

Gaz limped toward the table.

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

“Why aren't you wearing your brace?”

Gaz stopped.

Looked down at his knee.

Then back up.

“Why haven't you taken your tablets?”

“Don't change the subject.”

“You changed it first.”

“Brace.”

“Tablets.”

They stared at each other.

A familiar stalemate.

Then—

“Why the fuck is everybody awake?”

Price.

Ghost's head dropped forward.

“Christ.”

Price stood in the doorway wearing plaid pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt, his hair flattened spectacularly on one side.

Without his usual hat, tactical gear, boots, or captain's composure, he looked considerably less like the commanding officer of Task Force 141 and considerably more like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep he'd managed in days.

His eyes swept the room automatically.

Ghost.

{{user}}.

Gaz.

Medication.

Tea.

No immediate threat.

His shoulders relaxed.

Then his expression hardened again.

Different threat.

Idiots.

“Kyle.”

Gaz looked down.

“Yeah.”

“Brace.”

“Working on it.”

“No, you're not.”

“I was coming downstairs for water.”

Price looked at the empty hands.

Gaz followed his gaze.

“...was getting to that.”

Price turned toward Ghost.

“Simon.”

“No.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“Know what you're going to say.”

“Have you taken your medication?”

Ghost looked deeply offended.

Price stared.

Ghost stared back.

Price folded his arms.

Then immediately unfolded them when his injured side objected.

Ghost's eyebrow rose.

Price pointed at him.

“Don't.”

The sound that came from Gaz was suspiciously close to a laugh.

Price glared.

“You either.”

Gaz looked innocent.

“Didn't say anything.”

“You've both got faces.”

Ghost glanced toward Gaz.

Gaz glanced toward Ghost.

“Apparently we've got faces,” Gaz murmured.

“Tragic.”

Price shuffled toward the kettle.

Ghost frowned.

“What're you doing?”

“Tea.”

“You've already got tea.”

“That's yours.”

“Didn't drink it.”

“Exactly.”

Price reached for the kettle.

Three voices spoke.

“No.”

He froze.

Slowly, he turned.

Ghost stared at him.

Gaz stared at him.

There was absolutely no ambiguity about the look coming from {{user}}'s direction.

Price's moustache twitched.

“For God's sake.”

Ghost gestured toward his side.

“Sit.”

Price's eyes narrowed.

Gaz smiled sleepily.

“Chain of command doesn't seem to be working very well tonight, Captain.”

“None of you are currently under my command.”

Ghost grunted.

“Good. Sit down.”

Price muttered something about mutiny.

But he sat.

The kitchen became quiet again.

For approximately seven seconds.

Then footsteps thundered upstairs.

Everyone looked toward the ceiling.

A door opened.

Something hit a wall.

“Fuck!”

Price closed his eyes.

Ghost sighed.

Gaz whispered:

“And there he is.”

Soap appeared less than a minute later.

His mohawk had collapsed almost completely on one side.

He wore tartan pajama trousers, no shirt, one slipper, and the deeply aggrieved expression of a man personally betrayed by consciousness.

His injured arm remained carefully supported.

His other hand held—

A combat knife.

Four people stared at it.

Soap looked down.

“Oh.”

He placed it on the counter.

“Habit.”

Price stared.

“You heard voices and brought a knife?”

“Thought there might be an intruder.”

Ghost looked around the kitchen.

“Four of us already down here.”

“Didn't know that.”

“You didn't notice the empty bed?”

Soap blinked.

“I was asleep.”

Gaz leaned back.

“Strong defense.”

Soap rubbed his face.

“Why is everybody down here?”

Nobody answered immediately.

Soap's gaze landed on Ghost.

Then the medication.

Then the tea.

His expression softened.

“Oh.”

Ghost pointed at him.

“If you ask whether I've taken them—”

“Wasn't gonna.”

“Liar.”

“Aye.”

Soap pulled out a chair.

Price immediately frowned.

“Careful.”

Soap froze.

“Seriously?”

Price sighed.

“Sorry.”

Soap lowered himself more slowly.

The apology lingered.

Small.

Automatic.

One stubborn patient recognizing another.

Soap leaned his head against Gaz's shoulder.

Gaz let him.

“You're missing a sock,” Soap mumbled.

“So are you.”

Soap looked down.

He was.

“Huh.”

Ghost stared at them.

“Pair of tactical geniuses.”

“You're wearing a blanket.”

“Warm.”

“Looks cozy.”

“Don't.”

Soap was already reaching for the edge.

Ghost slapped his hand away.

“Get your own.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“Don't care.”

“Liar.”

Another tug.

Ghost resisted.

Soap tugged again.

Ghost glared.

Soap smiled.

Then Ghost sighed and opened one side of the blanket.

Soap immediately shuffled his chair closer.

Gaz followed without asking.

Ghost looked at him.

Gaz shrugged.

“My hoodie isn't enough.”

“You had a blanket upstairs.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you bring it?”

Gaz looked around the kitchen.

“Didn't know we were having a meeting.”

Price watched all three of them gradually disappear beneath one blanket.

“Ridiculous.”

Soap looked over.

“You want in?”

“No.”

Five minutes later, Price had his own blanket.

Nobody mentioned it.

The kettle eventually boiled.

Gaz handled the mugs from his chair while Soap contributed by opening tea packets one-handed and dramatically announcing himself as essential personnel.

Ghost finally took his medication.

Not because anybody ordered him to.

Nobody did.

The tablets simply remained beside his mug.

Water appeared next to them.

Conversation moved elsewhere.

The choice remained his.

Eventually, he picked them up.

Price noticed.

Said nothing.

So did Gaz.

So did Soap.

Nobody said a fucking word.

Ghost swallowed the tablets.

Soap immediately began talking about something else.

“Know what I was thinking?”

Ghost groaned.

“No.”

“You don't even know what I'm gonna say.”

“Doesn't matter.”

“We should get a hot tub.”

Gaz nearly spat out his tea.

Price stared.

“A what?”

“Hot tub.”

“At three-thirty in the morning?”

“Not now. Generally.”

“Why?”

“Recovery.”

Ghost looked at him.

“Bullshit.”

“Hydrotherapy.”

“You want a hot tub.”

“I can want two things.”

Gaz rubbed his face.

“Where would we even put it?”

Soap pointed vaguely toward the back garden.

“Out there.”

Price's brows furrowed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not explaining to Laswell why four injured operators drowned during medical leave.”

Soap looked scandalized.

“We know how to swim.”

“You also know how to cook,” Gaz said.

Silence.

Soap turned slowly.

“That was unnecessary.”

Ghost's shoulders shook.

Price tried not to laugh.

Failed.

Soap pointed at all of them.

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too,” Gaz murmured.

Soap's finger redirected toward him.

“You especially.”

Gaz smiled.

“Lucky me.”

The laughter faded.

Not abruptly.

Just naturally.

Leaving behind something softer.

Rain continued tapping against the windows.

Four mugs steamed beneath the low kitchen light.

The clock changed to 3:42.

Nobody seemed particularly interested in going upstairs anymore.

Price rested his head against the back of the chair.

“Been strange.”

Soap looked over.

“What?”

“This.”

Price gestured vaguely.

The house.

The injuries.

The silence.

All of it.

“Being home this long.”

Gaz nodded.

“Yeah.”

Soap's smile faded slightly.

“Keep expecting the phone to ring.”

Nobody joked about that.

Because they all did.

Ghost looked into his mug.

“Wake up sometimes thinking we're late.”

Price's eyes shifted toward him.

“For briefing?”

“Extraction.”

Silence.

There it was.

One of those truths that only seemed willing to come out when the clock started with a three.

Ghost continued before anyone could turn it into something bigger than he wanted.

“Then I remember.”

Gaz's voice was quiet.

“Remember what?”

Ghost's gaze moved around the kitchen.

Price in ridiculous pajama bottoms.

Gaz missing a sock.

Soap sharing his blanket despite having attempted theft first.

{{user}} there with them.

The rain.

The mugs.

The medication he'd finally taken.

His shoulders relaxed.

“Home.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Price's expression softened.

Soap looked down at his tea.

Gaz swallowed.

Then Soap sniffed dramatically.

Ghost immediately glared.

“Don't.”

“I'm not—”

“Johnny.”

“It's emotional.”

“I'll smother you with this blanket.”

Soap looked delighted.

“See? Affection.”

Gaz started laughing.

Price groaned.

And just like that, the moment cracked open.

Not ruined.

Never ruined.

Just made theirs.

Because apparently Task Force 141 couldn't experience emotional vulnerability for more than thirty consecutive seconds without somebody becoming a fucking nuisance.

Soap burrowed farther beneath Ghost's blanket.

Ghost looked down.

“You're taking the piss now.”

“Warm.”

“You've got your own body heat.”

“Not enough.”

Gaz, already tucked against Ghost's other side, lifted his mug.

“I'm staying out of this.”

“You're under my blanket too.”

Gaz paused.

Looked down at the blanket.

Then back up.

“Apparently.”

Ghost stared at both of them.

Price watched from across the table, mug cradled between his hands.

“You've made a tactical error, Simon.”

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

“How?”

“You let one in.”

Soap grinned.

“Pack mentality.”

“We're not wolves.”

“Could be.”

“No.”

“Price could be an old grumpy one.”

Price's eyebrows rose.

“Careful.”

“Gaz'd be one of those pretty ones.”

Gaz snorted.

“And you?”

Soap considered it.

“Handsome.”

Ghost didn't hesitate.

“Rabid.”

Gaz nearly dropped his tea.

Price barked out a laugh.

Soap looked personally wounded.

“That's fucking cruel.”

“Accurate.”

The clock on the microwave changed to 3:47 A.M.

Nobody seemed to notice.

Or maybe nobody cared.

The tea was getting cold.

Ghost's medication had finally been taken.

Gaz still had only one sock.

Soap's missing slipper remained an unsolved mystery.

Price's hair was sticking up badly enough that photographic evidence could probably be sold to half the regiment.

And somehow, without anyone deciding it, the kitchen had become the safest room in the world.

Ghost's gaze eventually drifted toward {{user}}.

Then Soap's followed.

Gaz looked over the rim of his mug.

Price was last.

Four exhausted faces.

Four injured soldiers who were supposed to be sleeping.

Four absolute fucking disasters gathered around a kitchen table because apparently none of them could tolerate knowing someone they loved was awake alone.

Soap lifted the edge of the blanket.

An offering.

“There's room.”

Ghost looked down at the approximately six inches of blanket remaining.

“There absolutely fucking isn't.”

Soap ignored him.

Gaz shifted anyway.

Ghost sighed.

Price's mouth twitched beneath his moustache.

“Don't look at me, love. I've lost control of the situation.”

“You never had control of the situation,” Gaz said.

Price turned.

“Kyle.”

“Just establishing the facts.”

Soap lifted the blanket higher.

Ghost muttered something murderous.

Gaz hid another smile behind his mug.

And four pairs of eyes settled back toward {{user}}—

leaving the empty space, the ridiculous invitation, and whatever came next entirely up to them.

The Great Escape

By week two of medical leave, the enemy had changed.

At first, it had been pain.

Stitches pulling.

Bruises blooming.

Muscles protesting.

Sleep interrupted by injuries that refused to let anyone forget they existed.

Then came frustration.

Buttons were harder one-handed.

Stairs became tactical considerations.

Getting comfortable required pillow arrangements complicated enough to qualify as military engineering.

After that came restlessness.

And then—

Boredom.

Boredom was worse.

Task Force 141 could handle pain.

Task Force 141 could handle frustration.

Task Force 141 could handle being shot at, hunted, stranded, outnumbered, and occasionally dropped into places where every available intelligence report could be summarized as good fucking luck.

What Task Force 141 could apparently not handle was being told to stay home for several weeks.

It started small.

Price began standing at the kitchen window for suspiciously long periods.

Gaz started checking the weather every morning despite having nowhere to go.

Ghost reorganized the same cupboard twice.

Soap began announcing how many days it had been since he'd “seen civilization.”

“You went to your follow-up appointment Tuesday,” Gaz reminded him.

“That was a hospital.”

“There were civilians there.”

“Doesn't count.”

“You stopped for coffee afterward.”

“Medical necessity.”

Ghost looked over.

“You ordered cake.”

“Morale necessity.”

Price lowered his newspaper.

“Could all of you find something productive to do?”

Three heads turned toward him.

Price reconsidered.

“Something productive that doesn't violate your discharge instructions.”

Silence.

Soap sighed dramatically.

“See? Oppression.”

That had been yesterday.

Today—

Something was wrong.

Not dangerous wrong.

There were no alarms.

No unfamiliar vehicles outside.

No voices where there shouldn't be voices.

No reason for anyone's instincts to sharpen.

And yet—

The house had gone quiet.

Again.

At this point, silence had developed a reputation.

There had been the Kitchen Incident.

The Laundry Basket Incident.

The completely unrelated second Laundry Basket Incident that Ghost insisted should not be counted because technically the basket never left the floor.

There had also been an event nobody was allowed to call the Shower Incident in Price's presence.

Soap had ignored that rule immediately.

But this silence was different.

Organized.

Conspiratorial.

The sort of silence created by people who were deliberately trying not to make noise.

A floorboard creaked near the front hall.

Then a whisper.

“Johnny.”

“I am being quiet.”

“You're wearing boots.”

“How else am I meant tae leave the house?”

“Quietly.”

“Fuck off.”

Gaz.

Soap.

Of course.

There was a brief rustle.

Then Gaz again.

“Where's Ghost?”

“Thought he was with you.”

“No.”

“Well, he's not with me.”

A pause.

“That's mildly concerning.”

Then, from somewhere much closer:

“Behind you.”

Soap made a noise that would never be acknowledged in an official military record.

“Jesus fuck!”

“Quiet.”

“You can't just materialize behind people!”

Ghost's voice remained flat.

“Just did.”

Gaz snorted.

“Nearly killed him.”

“Would've saved us carrying him.”

“I'm injured!”

“So are we.”

“Exactly! Have some compassion.”

Another pause.

Then Soap whispered:

“Did you get them?”

“Yeah.”

Something jingled.

Keys.

Silence.

Gaz spoke first.

“Why do you have those?”

“Price gave 'em to me.”

“He what?”

Ghost apparently considered that explanation sufficient.

Gaz apparently did not.

“Why does Price want the car keys?”

“Ask him.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside.”

A longer silence.

Soap's voice dropped.

“Our captain is already outside?”

“Yep.”

“Without us?”

“Yep.”

“The fucking betrayal.”

Gaz hissed:

“Will both of you shut up?”

The front hallway became quiet again.

For perhaps thirty seconds.

Then—

“Where's my other shoe?”

Soap.

Ghost answered.

“Your foot.”

“My other other shoe.”

“You've only got two feet.”

“I KNOW THAT, SIMON.”

“Quiet!”

“I'm trying!”

“You're shouting.”

“Whisper-shouting.”

“Still shouting.”

There was another rustle.

Then a dull thud.

Then:

“Fuck.”

Gaz sighed.

“What now?”

“Bent too far.”

“You alright?”

“Aye.”

“You sure?”

“...give us a second.”

The conspiracy paused.

No teasing.

No impatient complaints.

Just silence while Soap breathed through whatever his healing injuries had objected to.

Then Ghost's voice, quieter.

“Sit.”

“We're supposed to be escaping.”

“You can escape in thirty seconds.”

“Very generous.”

“Sit.”

A few moments passed.

Then Soap muttered:

“Alright.”

Gaz asked, “Better?”

“Aye.”

“Good.”

Another jingle of keys.

Then the front door opened.

Cold air slipped into the house.

And apparently that was the signal for the operation to proceed.

Gaz emerged first.

He was dressed in jeans, trainers, and a hoodie, his knee brace fitted properly beneath the denim for once.

He carried a small backpack.

Why they needed a backpack remained unclear.

Probably snacks.

Possibly medical supplies.

Knowing 141, ammunition could not be ruled out.

Ghost followed.

Black hoodie.

Dark trousers.

Skull balaclava.

Jacket.

He looked less like a man sneaking out during medical leave and more like someone preparing to conduct an armed robbery at a garden centre.

Soap came next.

His jacket was half-zipped.

His injured arm remained supported beneath it.

One shoelace was untied.

Gaz noticed.

“Stop.”

Soap froze.

“What?”

“Lace.”

He looked down.

“Fuck.”

“I told you.”

“You've told me many things.”

“And yet somehow none of them stick.”

Soap carefully crouched.

Stopped halfway.

Looked at his injury.

Then at Gaz.

Gaz stared back.

Soap smiled.

“Help?”

Gaz sighed.

But he bent carefully and tied it.

“Humiliating.”

“You're welcome.”

“Didn't say thank you.”

“You were going to.”

“Wasn't.”

Ghost opened the door wider.

“Move.”

They moved.

Outside, Price was standing beside the car.

Waiting.

He wore jeans, boots, a heavy jacket, and the expression of a man who had absolutely no intention of admitting that this entire situation was ridiculous.

One hand rested near his injured side.

The other held a travel mug.

Soap stopped dead.

“Oh, you bastard.”

Price frowned.

“What?”

“You're ready.”

“Obviously.”

“You didn't wait.”

“I am literally waiting.”

“You got dressed without us.”

Price stared at him.

“Did you want assistance?”

“No.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“Solidarity.”

Gaz stepped outside.

“Where are we even going?”

Price took a sip of coffee.

“Out.”

Gaz waited.

Price offered nothing else.

“Out where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Ghost locked the door behind them.

Soap looked delighted.

“I like this plan.”

Gaz looked between all three men.

“This isn't a plan.”

Price's moustache twitched.

“Course it is.”

“What's the objective?”

“Leave the house.”

“And then?”

Price opened the driver's door.

“See where morale takes us.”

Ghost stopped.

Soap stopped.

Gaz stopped.

Three men stared at him.

Price frowned.

“What?”

Soap's face slowly transformed.

First confusion.

Then realization.

Then absolute joy.

“Captain.”

Price's eyes narrowed.

“Don't.”

“This was your idea.”

Gaz looked at Price.

Then at Ghost.

Then back at Price.

“Wait.”

Ghost folded his arms.

Carefully.

Gaz pointed at the captain.

“You organized this?”

Price took another drink.

“I suggested we get some air.”

Soap made an outraged sound.

“Suggested?! You've orchestrated a fucking breakout!”

“Oh, don't be dramatic.”

“You gave Ghost the keys!”

“Because you'd lose them.”

“That is not the point!”

Ghost nodded once.

“He would.”

Soap turned.

“Not helping.”

Price gestured toward the car.

“Are we going or not?”

Gaz stared at him.

“We're all under medical restrictions.”

“We're going for a drive, Kyle, not invading France.”

“Last time Johnny went downstairs unsupervised he nearly reopened his stitches making pancakes.”

“That pancake incident has been weaponized against me for long enough.”

Ghost looked at him.

“Three days.”

“An eternity.”

Price opened his mouth.

Stopped.

His eyes shifted toward the house.

Everyone followed his gaze.

The front door stood closed behind them.

Silence.

Soap's face changed.

“Where's {{user}}?”

Four men froze.

Gaz closed his eyes.

“Oh, fuck.”

Ghost stared at Price.

Price stared back.

Soap whispered:

“We forgot one.”

“We did not forget them,” Price said immediately.

Gaz looked at him.

“We're outside.”

“Yes.”

“They're inside.”

“I am aware.”

“With no idea we're leaving.”

Price paused.

“That part may have been an oversight.”

Soap slapped his good hand over his mouth.

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

“You planned this.”

Price looked offended.

“I planned to get everyone out of the bloody house.”

“Missed one.”

“I can count, Simon.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Gaz turned away, shoulders shaking.

Price glared at his back.

“You've something to say?”

“No, sir.”

“You're laughing.”

“No, sir.”

Soap was absolutely fucking delighted.

“Oh, this is brilliant.”

Price pointed at him.

“You're not helping.”

“No, because usually I'm the idiot.”

“You are still an idiot.”

“But not the idiot.”

Ghost tilted his head.

“Debatable.”

Soap ignored him.

“This is historic.”

Price muttered something under his breath.

Gaz finally managed to turn back around.

“So what's the plan now?”

Price looked toward the house.

The others followed.

A light was on.

Price sighed.

“We go back in.”

Soap looked horrified.

“We just got out.”

“We're not leaving without them.”

“We could text.”

Four men considered this.

Gaz shook his head.

“No.”

Ghost agreed immediately.

“Cowardly.”

Soap frowned.

“What do we say? Morning, love. Just so you know, your four medically compromised boyfriends have staged an unauthorized departure. Fancy coming?”

Price stared at him.

“Don't send that.”

Soap slowly lowered his phone.

Gaz's eyes narrowed.

“Were you actually typing it?”

“No.”

“You were.”

“Drafting.”

Ghost reached for the phone.

Soap pulled it away.

“Fuck off.”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Right. Enough.”

He shut the car door.

“Back inside.”

Soap looked devastated.

“All that work.”

“You put shoes on.”

“It was emotionally demanding.”

Gaz snorted.

Ghost reached for the door.

And then stopped.

Everyone nearly walked into him.

Soap frowned.

“Why've we stopped?”

Ghost didn't answer.

He was staring through the glass.

Gaz followed his gaze.

Then Soap.

Then Price.

Silence.

The door opened.

Slowly.

Four injured members of Task Force 141 stood on the front step.

Fully dressed.

Shoes on.

Jackets zipped.

Backpack packed.

Travel mugs acquired.

Car keys in Ghost's hand.

Absolutely fucking caught.

Nobody spoke.

Soap's eyes darted toward Price.

Then Ghost.

Then Gaz.

There was panic there.

Not battlefield panic.

Something worse.

Partner panic.

Price straightened.

His captain's composure returned with astonishing speed.

Soap saw it happen.

His eyes widened.

“Oh, no.”

Price glanced at him.

“What?”

“You're going to captain your way out of this.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You've got the face.”

Price frowned.

“What face?”

Gaz made a strangled sound.

Ghost looked toward him.

Gaz covered his mouth.

Soap pointed at Price.

“The authoritative one! The one you use when you've done something questionable but you're about to make it sound like operational necessity.”

“I do not have such a face.”

“You absolutely have that face,” Gaz managed.

Ghost nodded.

“Got the face.”

Price looked betrayed.

“Not you too.”

Soap turned toward {{user}}.

He opened his mouth.

Price immediately warned:

“Johnny.”

Soap closed it.

Then opened it again.

Price's eyes narrowed.

Soap made a decision.

He pointed directly at Price.

“His idea.”

Price stared at him.

Ghost stared at Soap.

Gaz stared at Soap.

A beat of absolute silence passed.

Then Price's jaw dropped.

“You unbelievable little—”

“YES!”

Soap practically vibrated with vindication.

“FUCKING FINALLY!”

Gaz doubled over laughing and immediately regretted it when his knee protested.

Ghost caught his arm.

Price looked ready to commit murder on his own front step.

Soap was radiant.

“For once! FOR ONCE IT ACTUALLY WASN'T ME!”

“You were a willing participant!”

“IRRELEVANT!”

“You helped plan it!”

“UNDER ORDERS!”

Ghost's head turned.

Soap pointed at him too.

“YOU USED THAT EXCUSE WITH THE SYRUP!”

“Worked then.”

Price looked between them in disbelief.

“None of you were under orders!”

Gaz was still laughing.

“You did give Ghost the keys, Captain.”

“Thank you, Kyle.”

“That wasn't a defense.”

“Whose bloody side are you on?”

Gaz glanced toward {{user}}.

Then at the three injured idiots beside him.

“Currently?”

His smile widened.

“My own.”

Price muttered something deeply profane.

Soap stood proudly on the front step, still pointing at him.

Ghost held the incriminating car keys.

Gaz had the suspiciously prepared backpack.

Price had his travel mug and the unmistakable expression of a commanding officer whose operation had catastrophically failed before leaving the driveway.

Four elite soldiers.

Four terrible patients.

One hilariously unsuccessful escape attempt.

And absolutely nowhere left to hide.

Price finally looked toward {{user}}.

His shoulders lowered slightly.

The captain's voice became very, very reasonable.

“Before anyone starts making accusations—”

Soap made an outraged noise.

Price pointed at him without looking away.

“Not. One. Word.”

Soap mimed zipping his lips.

Waited exactly two seconds.

Then whispered:

“His idea.”

“JOHNNY.”

Soap grinned.

Ghost's shoulders shook.

Gaz looked dangerously close to losing it again.

And with the car waiting behind them and the open doorway in front of them, the four conspirators fell silent—

waiting to discover whether Operation: Get the Fuck Out of the House was about to receive a fifth member...

or be cancelled before it ever made it past the front step.