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“There’s a rumor around base that you make your masks yourself.” You look up at Ghost, stuffing your hands into your coat pockets and flexing your numb fingers.
“Aye, it’s true.” Soap chimes in. “He has quite a knack for arts ‘n crafts-“
Ghost reaches over your head to flick Soap squarely in the temple, withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket with his other hand.
Soap feigns offense and looks down at you accusatorily. “Ye gonna let him treat me like that?”
“You know I can’t do squat, Soap - he outranks both of us.”
“And yet here he is goin’ drinkin’ with us lowly Sergeants.” Soap grins smugly.
“Someone has to babysit.” Ghost slides his phone back into his jacket. “Price ‘n Gaz got held up in Kolkata. They’ll be in at oh-six-hundred.”
“That’s a shame,” You shiver as a brisk chill blows your hair away from your face. The bar entrance glows like a beacon in the night, with chatter and raucous laughter drifting down the street. “I was looking forward to seeing Price perched on a tiny bar stool.”
Ghost leads your little group inside, weaving around tables and dodging patrons until you reach the bar.
You slide in on Ghost's left, but Soap is stopped by a voice from across the venue.
“MacTavish?! Is that you?
Soap turns, then grumbles out a put-upon “steamin’ hell,” pushing away from the bar and affecting his expression into something much more jovial.
“Larson! How’ve ye been, ye bastard?”
You pull your gaze away from Soap’s expert display, looking back to the bar to find three glasses had been set down.
Ghost extends his metal credit card to the bartender. “Keep it open.”
He slides a glass in front of you and you instantly recognize the drink. You look up at him, beaming.
“You remembered.”
His eyes flick across your face for a split second, then he scoffs and looks down at his glass, swirling it absently. “Hard to forget - no one else drinks crap like that.”
You’re not deterred by his attempt at nonchalance. You look meaningfully at the bartender now slotting his card into the reader. “So what am I gonna owe you for this?” You place your elbow on the bar and rest your chin on your palm.
He lifts his balaclava over his nose and your eyes are unwittingly drawn to the faint scars tracking along his chiseled jaw. “Haven’t decided yet.” He sips his drink, watching you out of the corner of his eye.
You’re about to retort with something undoubtedly witty when a calloused hand plants itself on the bar to your left. You turn, instantly annoyed, to glare at the casually dressed man who’s standing far too close to you.
“Hey there.”
Oh, Jesus.
“What’s someone like you doing hanging around a brute like this?” He juts his chin towards Ghost while his eyes trail down your body in a way that makes your skin crawl.
You’re about to tear him a new one, or yank the knife away from the barback slicing limes and drive it through his hand, when Ghost interrupts you.
“Fuck off, Greenfield. She’s not interested.”
Typically, you like to fight your own battles, but you’d also like to see Ghost wipe the floor with this guy.
“I’m not fuckin’ talking to you, Gh-“
Ghost stands abruptly, his stool scraping loudly against the weathered floorboards. He positions himself between you and Greenfield.
“Well, I’m talkin’ to you.”
The man flinches backwards and you don’t blame him. You’d be shitting bricks if you were confronted by six feet two inches of solid muscle. You can’t see around Ghost to gauge Greenfield’s expression, but you can hear him stuttering.
Ghost steps ever so slightly closer to him. “Gimme an excuse, Marcus.” He says, so low that you have to strain your ears.
Greenfield shuffles away after that with a mumbled “Dickhead” and you watch him return to his group with a self-satisfied grin.
You’re about to give Ghost the accolades he deserves when Soap slides into the spot the creep had just vacated.
“Who the hell was that?” Soap reaches past you to accept the drink Ghost pushes towards him.
“Old headache.” Ghost takes a long sip of his bourbon.
“No kiddin‘ - bastard gives me one just by bein’ in the room.” Soap lifts his glass, smiling broadly at the two of you. “Well, cheers to-“
“Greenfield told me you were lurking at the bar, but I didn’t believe him.” Comes a self-righteous voice from behind you.
Ghost hangs his head in clear irritation. “Fuckin’ hell…”
“We cannae just enjoy our fuckin’ drinks in peace?” Soap spits, turning to glower at the trio approaching yours. You follow his gaze to find Greenfield standing behind two newcomers in full uniform, name patches included.
“Whatcha doin’ in Kandahar, hm?” The one labeled ‘Reyna’ continues. His pompous demeanor sends a flare of indignation up your spine.
“Probably avoiding your ass, if he’s smart.” You jump in, turning to face Reyna, Greenfield, and -you glance at the third man’s patch - Daniels.
Reyna’s expression warps into insincere surprise like he just now noticed you exist. “Oh, ho - looks like Price’s lapdogs were given a rabbit to chase.”
The men on either side of you tense almost imperceptibly.
“Or should I say,” Reyna looks you up and down lasciviously, “bunny. Why don’t you hop on over to our barracks tonight, little bunny? We’ll treat you far better than-“
There’s a blur of motion in your periphery, and then Ghost’s fist is smashing into Reyna’s face, flattening his nose.
For a moment, everyone goes still; the patrons are stunned into silence, the three men before you gaping in shock.
Soap is the first to move. “Fuckin’ finally.” He promptly stands and brutally shoves Greenfield, who flips backward over the table behind him and lands on the floor.
The tension snaps and suddenly patrons are hurrying out of the bar and the bartender is red in the face, shouting and swiping a phone off the receiver.
Reyna recovers from his astonishment, advancing on Ghost and throwing out his fist with some colorful curses.
At the same time, Daniels stalks towards you like a rabid animal, looking supremely pissed. Though, luckily for you, you’ve got the market cornered on ‘pissed,’ and you easily sidestep his attempt to grab you before rushing him like a linebacker.
You tackle Daniels to the ground, straddling his waist and swinging your arms wildly, pummeling his face while he tries to shield it.
Subconsciously, you register the sounds of Greenfield and Reyna receiving the beating of a lifetime, and Daniels uses your momentary distraction to drive his fist into your face.
You’re thrown off him, your split lip and cheek coating your tongue with iron. He jumps to his feet, stomping towards you with a mangled face. In your periphery, Ghost launches Reyna over a table and strides over to intercept, catching Daniels off guard with a devastating gut punch.
“The MP’s are gonna be here any second!” The bartender shouts, waving his phone in the air while Daniels doubles over and wraps his arms around his stomach, wheezing. “Y’all better get the fuck out of my bar!”
Reyna stands, trying and failing to look unbothered while he grabs Daniels by the back of his shirt collar and drags him to the door, shouting obscenities and cursing Ghost’s existence.
Soap hauls a battered Greenfield to his feet and pushes him in the direction of his retreating companions with a cheeky “Dismissed.”
The three of them hightail it out of the bar while Ghost ambles over to the counter and holds out his hand expectantly. The bartender flicks his credit card at him.
You and Soap shuffle outside, the cool air a blessing on the heat radiating from your swollen cheek.
“Not my first bar fight, but I think I’ve got a new favorite.” Soap chuckles, wiping his sleeve across the sluggishly bleeding gash above his eyebrow.
Ghost trails out of the bar, returning his wallet to his pocket, and the three of you set off.
“Gaz’ll be sorry he missed the action. Price is gonna have a fuckin’ coronary, though.” You sigh, patting your pockets to verify nothing was lost.
“Bastards had it coming.” Ghost falls into step to your left.
“Aye, that they did, LT.” Soap nods from your right.
Suddenly, the prospect of your impending castigation isn’t so daunting when you know you’re in the same boat as two of your favorite people.
-
You collapse onto your stiff cot immediately upon returning to your room, only to be awoken a tragically short time later by a buzz from your nightstand. You blearily grab your phone and squint at the screen.
Ghost
Sunday 06:28
Price wants us in the briefing room.
Now?
Now.
Well, time to face the music. You roll out of bed, your cheek the size of a baseball and with a heartbeat of its own.
Shuffling down the corridor, pointedly avoiding eye contact with any passersby, you shoulder open the door to find Ghost and Soap sitting before the desk, a vacant chair between them. They both look as bruised as you feel, evidence of Ghost’s black eye peeking out from under his mask.
Price is leaning against the front of the desk, arms folded over his chest, watching you take your seat sheepishly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been called to the principal’s office.
Price breaks the silence with a world-weary sigh. “Couldn’t even stay out of trouble for two days, hm?”
“You shoulda heard the shite they were spewin-“
Price raises his hand and Soap snaps his mouth shut. “I heard. The other three muppets have been…reassigned.”
Price crosses his arms again, appearing lost in thought. He inhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut before exhaling.
“Did you win?”
The three of you exchange considerate glances before you all turn and nod simultaneously.
“Good.” Price straightens. “Change into your PT’s and regroup on the track - you lot could use a refresher on hand-to-hand.”
He scans each of your faces with a raised brow. “No team of mine has any business looking like this after a bar fight, for fuck’s sake.”
You file out of the room with Ghost and Soap on your heels, trying your best but ultimately failing to contain your giddy laughter. A wry smile draws up Soap’s lips, and soon he’s chuckling right along with you.
Ghost just huffs and shakes his head in amusement, but it’s enough to put a spring in your step all the way out to the track.