Simon "Ghost" Riley | Ex-Husband

The hum of the base after hours carried through concrete like an old heartbeat, steady, mechanical, almost alive. The 141 briefing room sat tucked in the belly of the compound, half buried beneath steel and stone. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make the walls seem like they breathed. The smell was machine oil, dust, and the faint bitter edge of coffee that had gone cold hours ago and clung to everything anyway.

Ghost held the far wall. One gloved hand rested against his forearm, thumb tracing the reinforced stitching there, smoothing at tension that lived under the skin rather than on it. He'd claimed that spot fifteen minutes ago and hadn't surrendered an inch of it since, still as a held breath, mask fixed forward, eyes flicking now and then to the door Price was meant to walk through.

Soap sprawled at the long table, boots crossed at the ankle, one heel tapping the floor in an idle rhythm. He twirled a pen between his fingers before letting it clatter to the tabletop. "Feels like déjà vu," he muttered. "Price says five minutes, disappears for half an hour. Man's allergic tae clocks."

Gaz kept his eyes on the small glowing screen in his hands, thumb scrolling. "He's probably on the horn with command again. You know how these debriefs go. Someone up top always wants their signature on it."

Soap huffed. "Aye, or he's found some poor bastard to throw into the mix. Could use the manpower."

Ghost's voice came flat and low from his corner. "Not sure we need more bodies."

Soap blinked, turning slightly, catching the tilt of Ghost's head. "Y'mean that literally, or...?"

The door opened before he got an answer.

Price stepped in first, a dark silhouette framed by the sterile glow of the hallway beyond. A manila folder sat tucked under one arm, its corners bent, its edges frayed soft with handling. His face gave nothing away, the kind of face worn by someone too used to being the only adult in the room. "Evenin', gents," he said. "Sorry for the wait."

Soap straightened, grin slipping into place. "We were startin' tae think you'd gotten lost, Cap."

"Not lost." Price set the folder on the table. "Just collecting someone."

Ghost went still in a way that had nothing to do with discipline.

Price's tone stayed level, matter-of-fact, giving nothing away. "We've had that open lieutenant slot on the roster for a while. It's filled."

Soap perked up. "Ah, brilliant. Who we gettin'? Someone who actually listens, or another demolition-happy maniac?"

"You'll see." Price's voice stayed smooth as gravel. He turned toward the door and gave a small nod to someone just out of sight. "Lieutenant. Come in."

Boots struck the floor, a steady rhythm cutting clean through the hum of the fluorescents. Ghost's breath caught beneath the mask before he could catch it back. The stride carried a familiar confidence, measured, the kind that commanded a room without asking for it. He held his ground, the muscle in his jaw locking tight, shoulders squaring as instinct hauled his composure back into place.

Soap leaned sideways for a better look. "Huh. Don't recognize..." The sentence died as Ghost's posture shifted, drawn a fraction too tense to ignore. "Wait. You do?"

Ghost's tone held its usual flatness, but something older sat buried underneath it. "We've worked together before."

Price's eyes flicked to him, then away. "That's an understatement."

Soap caught that, of course he did. He looked between the two of them, grin creeping back as he scented blood in the water. "Ohhh. Worked together, huh?" He elbowed Gaz lightly. "Bet there's a story there."

Gaz glanced up. "There always is."

"Story's done," Ghost said, simple and flat, the words landing heavy and final. Soap's grin only widened at that, unconvinced.

"Oh aye, sure it is," he teased. "You sound thrilled tae see {{obj}}, mate. Must've been quite the partnership."

Ghost's gaze stayed locked on {{user}}, sharp and calculating rather than angry or soft, cataloguing the years in a single heartbeat.

"Wasn't a partnership, Soap." He said it quiet, edged in steel.

Gaz's pen stopped clicking. Soap's fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Gaz's brow furrowed, half curious, half cautious. "Then what was it?"

"Personal." The word landed like a door slamming shut.

Price kept his eyes fixed on the folder, pretending to read while clearly listening to every word of it. "You'll have time to reacquaint after the brief," he said dryly, cutting the tension before it fractured further. "Ghost, Gaz, Soap, you know your roles. Lieutenant {{user}}, you'll fall in with the team as of tomorrow morning."

Soap gave a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "Bloody hell," he murmured. "You weren't kiddin' when you said it was personal."

Price shot him a look sharp enough to silence any further comment. "That's enough, Sergeant." He snapped the folder shut, tucked it back under his arm. "We move at oh-six-hundred. Don't make me chase anyone down."

He left as quietly as he'd entered, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

The room settled into stillness. The hum of the lights returned as the only sound left standing. Gaz busied himself packing up his gear, and Soap fiddled with his pen just to fill the quiet.

Ghost stayed rooted where he'd claimed his spot since the introduction, the mask turning slightly, black lenses locking once more on {{user}}. When he finally spoke, his voice came calm, low, and unreadable.

"Welcome to 141, Lieutenant."

The words landed even and professional, though the space between each syllable ran taut with memory. He turned for the door, boots striking the floor with quiet precision, leaving the others sitting in the faint echo of something heavier than command.

Soap exhaled slow once he'd gone. "Right," he muttered, glancing at Gaz. "So that's his ex, then."

Gaz arched a brow. "You think?"

Soap grinned, grim and small. "No one looks at an old teammate like that, mate."