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1.
Contrary to popular belief, Soap had always been a smooth talker, but this time, even he was pushing the limits of his charm. The team had made contact with a local militia leader to negotiate safe passage through contested territory, but something about the man’s body language set Ghost on edge. They stood in the middle of a makeshift encampment, surrounded by armed guards, while Soap exchanged words with the leader.
Soap, all confidence, leaned in with a grin. "Come on, mate, let's not make this harder than it has to be. We just need to pass through. No need for trouble."
The militia leader scowled, clearly not interested in making things easy. His hand hovered a little too close to his holster for Ghost’s liking. Ghost stood a few steps behind Soap, barely moving, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Tall, imposing, clad in black with his skull mask in place, Ghost was a living embodiment of menace.
Soap subtly nudged back into Ghost’s space, brushing an elbow against Ghost’s arm—light, but enough to remind him to stay calm. "Simon," Soap whispered under his breath, his voice carrying an edge of humour despite the tension. "Easy, big guy. I’ve got this."
Ghost didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the leader. He took a half-step forward, the movement subtle yet palpable. The air thickened as Ghost’s towering presence somehow grew more ominous. The guards shifted uncomfortably, hands twitching towards their weapons, but they didn’t dare draw. Even the militia leader faltered, his gaze darting from Soap to Ghost, clearly calculating the risk.
"You make a move," Ghost growled lowly, "and you’ll regret it."
Soap chuckled softly, clearly amused by the tension, though he didn’t outwardly acknowledge it. He finished the conversation with a handshake and a promise of no further trouble. As they walked away, Soap turned to Ghost, still grinning like a man who had been in control the whole time.
"Wasn’t necessary, mate," Soap said, reaching out to give Ghost a playful punch to the arm, lingering just long enough for Ghost to feel the weight behind it. "But I can’t say I don’t appreciate having my own personal bodyguard. Scary dog privileges, eh?"
Ghost huffed, the hint of something like fondness flickering in his gaze. "You were pushing it, Johnny."
"Maybe," Soap winked, bumping his shoulder lightly against Ghost’s side, "but I knew you’d have my back."
Ghost’s gloved hand briefly clapped Soap’s shoulder as they walked, the rare contact reassuring without a word. It was quick, a fleeting gesture, but it carried the unspoken promise: I’m always watching your back.
2.
Ghost’s protectiveness over Gaz wasn’t limited to battlefield scenarios. Sometimes, it extended to everyday things, like now, in the middle of a tactical planning room where the younger sergeant had been working for hours without a break.
Gaz had papers spread out across the table, his laptop open with several encrypted tabs flickering with data. His eyes were red from staring at the screen, and he'd been bouncing his knee for the past hour, a sign of his rising stress levels. Ghost, who had been silently observing from a corner, finally stepped in, making his way over to Gaz’s side.
"Gaz," Ghost’s voice rumbled from behind him, startling him slightly. A large hand landed heavily on Gaz’s shoulder, grounding him instantly. "Take a break."
"I’m fine, Ghost," Gaz said quickly, barely glancing up. "Just gotta finish this."
Ghost’s shadow loomed over him as he stepped closer, his grip tightening just slightly on Gaz’s shoulder before releasing it, his voice lowering into that commanding tone he used when he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. "Take. A. Break."
Gaz blinked and finally looked up, only to be met with Ghost’s unflinching stare. His fingers brushed against the keyboard hesitantly, but the weight of Ghost’s presence left no room for argument. With a resigned sigh, Gaz leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes.
"Fine, fine," he muttered, stretching out his arms with a groan. Ghost’s hand dropped from his shoulder, a momentary touch, but it lingered in the atmosphere. "Happy now?"
Without a word, Ghost stepped forward and closed the laptop, pushing it just out of Gaz’s reach. He then set a bottle of water and an energy bar on the table, his silent way of saying he wasn’t budging until Gaz took care of himself.
Gaz couldn’t help but smirk. "You’re like a mother hen sometimes, you know that?"
Ghost placed both hands on the back of Gaz’s chair, his hulking figure still looming. "Say it again, and I’ll break your laptop," Ghost said flatly, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the lack of real threat.
Gaz chuckled as he opened the energy bar, shaking his head. "Right, right. I know you’re just looking out for me."
"Someone’s got to," Ghost muttered, his hand brushing the back of Gaz’s chair one more time before he moved off, satisfied that Gaz was taking his much-needed break.
Gaz leaned back, the weight of Ghost’s protectiveness settling around him. There weren’t many people who had Simon Riley watching their back—especially when they didn’t even realise they needed it.
3.
Price had been injured during a mission, a bullet graze along his side that wasn’t serious, but it was enough to force him into a few days of rest. He hated every minute of it, preferring to be anywhere but in the infirmary with nothing but paperwork to keep him busy. Ghost, however, seemed to take Price’s injury far more seriously than he did.
"Simon, for the last time, I’m fine," Price grumbled as Ghost entered the room again, checking the perimeter as if expecting an enemy ambush to come crashing through the hospital walls.
Ghost didn’t respond. He walked over to Price’s bedside, standing tall, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed on Price, that unreadable expression back in place. As much as Price liked to protest, the scrutiny was comforting in its own way.
"I don’t need a bloody bodyguard," Price muttered, though his tone held a hint of amusement. "Go on, get some fresh air. You’ve been breathing down my neck for hours."
"You’ve got stitches," Ghost pointed out, his voice gruff but strangely soft as he reached down to adjust the blanket over Price’s side. His hand lingered for just a moment, firm and careful, before pulling away.
"And they’ll heal," Price said, smirking as he watched Ghost’s movements. "Just like every other time."
Ghost’s posture didn’t relax, not even a little. "You need to rest."
Price’s smirk widened, one eyebrow arching upwards as his lips twitched. "You’re hovering, Simon."
"You got shot," Ghost said, his voice low and tense, arms still crossed, as though he was trying to contain his worry.
Price couldn’t help but chuckle. "Protective, aren’t you? But you know, I’ve been doing this a long time. I don’t need you babysitting me."
"Not babysitting," Ghost grunted. "Just making sure you don’t do something stupid. You’ve got a habit of that."
With a deep sigh, Price leaned back in his bed, one hand reaching up to pat Ghost’s arm—a rare moment of physicality between them. "You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that? Can’t stand to let anyone else take care of you, but the moment I’ve got a scratch, you’re all over me like a bloody mother hen."
Ghost’s silence stretched for a beat, but the slight shift in his posture gave him away. Price smirked knowingly, his eyes softening. "Admit it, Simon. You’re worried."
Ghost didn’t respond, but there was the slightest movement—a shift in the way he stood, closer now, within arm’s reach. The captain chuckled again, shaking his head.
"Alright, alright," Price muttered, patting Ghost’s arm again. "I’ll rest. But only because you’re making that face."
+1
The team was off duty for once, and they'd decided to hit a local bar to blow off steam. It was a rare moment where they could relax without the weight of a mission hanging over their heads. Price, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost sat around a table near the back, the dim lighting casting long shadows over their faces. Ghost, in particular, had kept his mask on, as he usually did in public spaces.
The night had been going well—drinks, jokes, stories shared about old missions—but Ghost had been unusually quiet, even for him. His body language had shifted ever so slightly, and the rest of the team noticed.
It didn’t take long to spot the source of his discomfort.
A drunk, overly persistent stranger had approached their table earlier, eyeing Ghost with a mix of curiosity and something a little darker. The guy had been hanging around for too long, asking questions that got more invasive with every passing minute. He clearly wasn’t taking the hint that Ghost didn’t want to talk, and the situation
was getting under his skin.
Ghost was used to intimidation tactics in combat, but social situations like this? They didn’t sit right with him, and the team knew it.
Price leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he observed the situation unfold. Soap, catching on quickly, had already started to bristle, his foot tapping against Ghost’s boot under the table—a subtle signal of his readiness to intervene.
"You alright, Simon?" Soap asked, his voice calm but laced with concern. His knee brushed against Ghost’s leg, grounding him.
Ghost’s only response was a tight nod, his posture stiff. He hadn’t said much since the guy had wandered over, and it was clear now that he was uncomfortable. His eyes flicked toward the exit for a second, but the guy had blocked him in, practically standing over him now.
"Hey, mate, I’m just asking a question," the stranger slurred, leaning a little too close to Ghost for anyone’s comfort. "You military or somethin’? What’s with the mask? You think you’re tough or something, huh?"
Ghost didn’t even look at the man. His shoulders were tense, hands clenched into fists on the table. Soap’s hand slipped briefly to Ghost’s forearm under the table—a silent gesture of reassurance. It was taking all of Ghost’s control not to react, but the team could see he was seconds away from snapping.
Price exchanged a glance with Soap, and that was all it took. They didn’t need to say anything—Gaz had already shifted in his seat, casually moving closer to the stranger, his posture nonchalant but his intent clear.
"Oi," Soap called out, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bar. He gave the stranger a hard, piercing look. "You might wanna back off. Now."
The man blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in the atmosphere. "What? I’m just talkin’ to your friend here."
"Doesn’t look like he wants to talk to you," Gaz added, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge. He shifted closer, his arm brushing Ghost’s, providing silent support. "Why don’t you move along?"
Price, ever the leader, stood up slowly, his sheer presence enough to draw the guy’s attention. "This conversation’s over," Price said in that low, commanding tone he reserved for situations like this. "Get lost, before you regret it."
The stranger hesitated for a moment, his bravado faltering under the weight of three men who clearly weren’t messing around. He glanced at Ghost again, as if considering his options, but then thought better of it. He muttered something under his breath before stumbling away, disappearing into the crowd.
As soon as the guy was gone, Ghost exhaled slowly, his body relaxing ever so slightly. He hadn’t even realised how tense he’d been until the weight of the situation lifted. It wasn’t the threat of violence that had bothered him—it was the invasion of his personal space, the way the guy had made him feel trapped.
"Thanks," Ghost muttered, his voice gruff but sincere.
Soap clapped him on the shoulder, his hand lingering a moment longer than usual. "What, you thought we’d let some idiot bother you? Not a chance, mate. We’ve got your back, same as you’ve always got ours."
Gaz leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, looking smug. "Scary dog privileges go both ways, you know."
Price smirked as he sat back down, his hand resting briefly on Ghost’s back as he passed him, making sure he was alright. "We look out for each other, Simon. You’re no exception."
Ghost didn’t say much, but there was a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, something soft and unspoken as he glanced around at his team. He’d spent years protecting them—fiercely, relentlessly—and now, in this moment, they had returned the favour.
Soap leaned in closer, his arm brushing Ghost’s as he grinned teasingly. "Besides, you’re ours. No one gets to mess with you except us."
Ghost huffed, the closest thing to a laugh he’d give in public, but there was a warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there before. As much as he hated feeling vulnerable, there was something comforting in knowing that they had his back, even when it wasn’t about missions or enemies.