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The break-room of Task Force 141’s base was quiet, a rare moment of stillness settling over the room. The mission was over, and for once, none of them were on edge. It was a time for unwinding. For laughs. For banter. For shit-talking. Soap had his feet up on the table, Gaz was flipping through a deck of cards, and Ghost sat nearby, arms crossed, his mask securely in place.
Price walked in, holding a dusty old file box under one arm. His cap was slightly askew, signalling that even he had finally relaxed.
“What’s that, Cap?” Soap asked, looking up with a gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
Price gave a nonchalant shrug. “Just some old files,” he said, setting the box down on the table. “Paperwork. But…” He hesitated for a moment, a smirk playing on his lips. “There’s a few things in here you lot might want to see.”
Gaz perked up, leaning forward as Price opened the box and began pulling out folders. They were thick, full of worn-out papers, ink-smudged reports, and…
“Holy shit.” Soap reached over, pulling out a small stack of photographs. “Are these…?”
“Pictures,” Price said, with a glint in his eye. “From missions, training, some pub nights. Been collecting ‘em for years.”
Soap let out a laugh of disbelief as he flipped through the photos, showing the others as they crowded around. “Look at this one! Me, Gaz, and Ghost on our first op together.” He held it up for everyone to see—a much younger Soap with a baby face and a shock of hair that was still growing in, Gaz looking fresh out of basic, and Ghost in his first mask.
Gaz leaned closer, grinning. “Jesus, Suds, look at you. Baby-faced and carrying that massive gun like it’s a toy.”
Soap chuckled, tossing a playful glare at Gaz. “Hey, I was a badass even then. Just, you know… less facial hair.”
Ghost, who’d been silently watching, let out a small, low chuckle. Soap pointed at him, grinning. “Oi, don’t you start. You were as skinny as I was back then.”
Gaz took the photo from Soap’s hand and raised an eyebrow. “Skinny? You both look like scrawny recruits.”
Price sat down, a faint smile on his face as he watched the team banter. He thumbed through the stack of photos in front of him, pulling out one of Ghost specifically. The man had his back turned in the picture, dressed in full tactical gear, but his presence was unmistakable. Price glanced at Ghost before quietly setting the photo aside. A little piece of tape covered Ghost’s face in a few others—Photos where Price had gone out of his way to ensure Ghost’s privacy, even in a folder meant only for their eyes.
Soap, oblivious to the significance, held up another picture. “Look at this!” He laughed, pointing at a photo of a much younger Captain Price. “You're blonde?”
Price chuckled, not at all offended. “Aye, and I've been going grey putting up with you lot.”
Gaz barked out a laugh, tossing the card deck aside. “Mate, you look like you’ve seen some shit. When was this?”
Price peered over at the photo. “Afghanistan, ‘round 2005. Few months before I met Ghost, actually.”
Ghost glanced up at the mention of his name, his dark eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask. “Oh? You got any from when I joined?”
Price reached into the box and pulled out a file marked “2007,” handing it over without saying a word.
Ghost took it, hesitating for a moment before opening the folder. Inside were more photos—old, grainy shots of the team during their early missions. There was Ghost, back in his early mask days, towering silently in the background of most of the shots. The edges of some of the photos had yellowed with time, but they were all carefully preserved.
But it was the detail Ghost noticed most. In every photo where his face would have been visible, Price had taped over it. Thin pieces of tape, not clumsily placed, but carefully cut to match the shape of Ghost’s face, ensuring no one could accidentally catch a glimpse of what was underneath.
Ghost stared at the photos, his fingers tracing over the tape. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t even realized Price kept these photos. His eyes flicked up to meet Price’s, and something passed between them—something unspoken but understood.
“You… you taped over my face?” Ghost’s voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.
Price’s gaze was steady, calm. “Thought you might appreciate the option. Didn’t want to assume.”
There was a moment of silence before Soap, oblivious to the weight of the conversation, burst out laughing again. “That’s some dedication right there. You actually taped over ‘em, Price? You think someone’s gonna steal our precious mugs?”
Gaz snorted. “Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to look at you every time I flipped through these.”
But Ghost… Ghost was still staring at the photos, at the care Price had taken to protect him, even in something as small as this. After a long beat, he gave a short nod. “Thanks, Price.”
The captain didn’t say anything—just gave a small, acknowledging nod back.
After a moment, Ghost reached up, peeling the tape off one of the photos slowly, as if testing the waters. When the adhesive finally came away, revealing the faint outline of his face beneath the mask, Soap and Gaz both leaned in closer.
“Bloody hell,” Soap whispered, eyes wide. “There he is. The legend himself.”
Ghost shot him a deadpan look. “Shut it.”
“Seriously though, you’ve got good cheekbones, mate,” Gaz added, smirking. “All this time, and you’ve been hiding ‘em under that mask.”
Ghost rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. He glanced back at the picture in his hands, feeling the strange mixture of warmth and embarrassment bubbling in his chest. It was odd—having this piece of himself so openly shared, so casually accepted by the people he trusted most.
Soap clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad you’re finally revealing your true self, LT. Next, we’ll get you to smile in one of these photos.”
“Don’t push your luck,” Ghost muttered, though there was a slight crinkle at the edges of his eyes that hinted at something softer beneath the gruff exterior.
As the banter flowed, Price leaned back, watching the team joke and tease each other over old photographs. There was something in the air—a sense of camaraderie that ran deeper than the missions, than the uniforms they wore. These photos weren’t just memories of their time in the field; they were snapshots of everything they’d been through together—the close calls, the victories, the nights spent in dingy pubs, the laughter that carried them through the darkest of times.
Soap held up another picture, laughing at a younger version of himself wielding an absurdly oversized gun. “Look at that beauty! I could barely hold the damn thing.”
Gaz grinned. “You look like you’re about to topple over, mate. Who thought it was a good idea to give a kid like you that much firepower?”
“I managed, didn’t I?” Soap shot back, grinning proudly. “Look at me now.”
Ghost’s gaze drifted to the other photos strewn across the table—pictures of them as a team. There was one from a mission in Russia, another from a debriefing where Soap was clearly mouthing off to Price while Gaz laughed in the background. And then there were the ones from more recent times—pub nights, Christmas parties, quiet moments in between the chaos of their lives.
“You kept all of these?” Ghost asked, his voice low but full of something unspoken.
Price nodded, his tone calm and steady. “Someone’s gotta keep track of the good times.”
Ghost didn’t respond immediately, but there was a warmth in his eyes as he continued looking through the photos. It was strange, seeing himself through Price’s eyes—through the team’s eyes. Strange, but not unwelcome.
Gaz suddenly snickered, holding up another photo. “Look at this one. Soap passed out in the back of the truck after that one mission in Syria.”
Soap turned red, lunging to snatch the photo out of Gaz’s hands. “Oi! I was tired, alright?”
Ghost chuckled under his breath. “Looks more like you got knocked out, Johnny.”
Gaz winked. “Bet he didn’t even make it back to the barracks.”
The banter continued as they sifted through more memories, each one a snapshot of their bond, of the family they’d built over the years. And as the night wore on, with laughter echoing through the breakroom and teasing traded back and forth like currency, the weight of the world felt just a little bit lighter.
Price leaned back in his chair, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This was why he kept those photos. For moments like this. For the times when they weren’t just soldiers, but men—friends—who had survived, thrived, and built something unbreakable together.
And as Ghost quietly peeled the last piece of tape off his face in another photo, Price couldn’t help but feel a surge of warmth in his chest.
They were more than his team. They were his boys, his family.