The 141 (besides Price) find out Simon has a wife.
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@st4r1ighttThe air in the bar was thick with smoke and the low hum of post-mission adrenaline. It was a dive on the outskirts of London, the kind of place that didn’t ask questions when four men in tactical gear walked in. The mission had been a success, clean, and the relief was palpable in the way Soap was already three pints deep and leaning heavily on the sticky wooden bar.
John "Soap" MacTavish
C’mon, LT. One more round. For the road. Then we find you a nice bird to walk it with, eh?
Ghost didn’t look up from his whisky. The glass was half-empty, the ice long melted. He sat with his back to the wall, a mountain of black fabric and quiet intensity. Price watched from a nearby booth, nursing a scotch, his expression unreadable. Gaz was on his other side, looking amused but tired.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Give it a rest, Johnny. He’s not interested.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Not interested? That’s the problem! Bloke’s a monk. A very large, very scary monk. When was the last time you even spoke to a woman who wasn’t holding a rifle?
Ghost’s finger tapped once, slowly, against the side of his glass. The skull balaclava was pulled up just over his nose, revealing the hard line of his mouth. It didn’t twitch.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Don’t need to.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Don’t need to? Everyone needs to! It’s basic human connection, mate. Even you. Especially you. Look, that one over by the jukebox. Brunette. She’s looked over here twice.
Gaz followed Soap’s pointed nod. The woman in question was laughing with a friend, completely unaware she was being audited for compatibility with a special forces lieutenant.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
She’s looking at Price, you idiot.
John Price
snorts quietly into his glass
John "Soap" MacTavish
Fine! Not her. There’s dozens. We’re not leaving until you at least give a signal. A nod. A grunt. Something.
Soap’s voice had taken on a wheedling, desperate edge. The alcohol and the persistent, grating curiosity had worn his patience to a nub. He slammed his empty pint glass down for emphasis.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Why? Just give me one good reason why you won’t even let me buy a lass a drink for you!
The question hung in the smoky air. Gaz stopped smiling. Price took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on Ghost over the rim of his glass. For a long moment, there was only the distant clatter of pool balls and the tinny music from the speakers.
Ghost finally lifted his head. His eyes, pale and sharp in the dim light, flicked to Soap. Then back to his drink.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Got a bird waiting for me at home.
The silence that followed was absolute. Soap’s jaw went slack. Gaz’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Even Price, who knew, allowed a faint, knowing smirk to touch his lips before he hid it behind another sip.
John "Soap" MacTavish
You… you what?
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You’re having us on.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
No.
John "Soap" MacTavish
A bird. At home. Your home. You. Simon Bloody Riley.
Soap leaned forward, his eyes wide with a mixture of utter disbelief and dawning, manic glee.
John "Soap" MacTavish
What’s her name? How long? Do we know her? Is she… is she real?
Simon "Ghost" Riley
That’s enough.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
No, hang on, this is huge. You’ve been holding out on us. Seriously? A wife?
John "Soap" MacTavish
A wife?! He said a bird, not a wife!
Ghost let out a slow, controlled breath. The questions were piling up, a barrage he had no interest in weathering. His hand moved, not to his drink, but to the collar of his black shirt. He hooked a finger under the fabric and the chain he always wore.
With a deliberate, quiet motion, he pulled the chain free. Dangling from it, catching the dull bar light, was a simple, solid silver band.
Soap’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Gaz stared, his earlier amusement replaced by genuine shock.
John "Soap" MacTavish
You’re married.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Five years.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Five— Price! Did you know?
John Price
Read it in his file.
John "Soap" MacTavish
And you never said anything?! Captain, that’s a betrayal of the highest order!
Soap was vibrating now, all his focus laser-locked on Ghost. He pointed a trembling finger at the ring.
John "Soap" MacTavish
I need to meet her. The woman who tamed the Ghost. I need to shake her hand. I need to buy her a whole bloody distillery. When do we meet her? Tomorrow? We’re back, you’re going home, we’ll follow you—
Simon "Ghost" Riley
No.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Simon. Lieutenant. Brother in arms. I am begging you.
Ghost tucked the ring back under his shirt, the metal disappearing against his chest. He finally looked directly at Soap, his gaze flat and final.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
I’ll talk to her.