Simon stood by the weapon racks, checking over his gear with a calculating focus. He was all business. That was, until—

"SIMON RILEY."

His entire body tensed. That tone? That was your tone.

And then—

"WAAAAAHHHH!"

A baby’s wail followed.

Ghost slowly turned his head, and there you were, standing in the doorway with a very upset Oliver. His little arms reached outward, his cries demanding immediate attention.

"Take him," {{user}} said, marching straight toward Simon.

"What?" Ghost took a step back, as if you had just handed him an active grenade.

"Take. Him."

Before he could protest, you pressed Oliver into his arms. The baby clung to his father immediately, tiny fingers grabbing at his mask and tactical vest. Ghost instinctively caught him, his strong hands suddenly feeling far too large for such a small, delicate body.

"Ah, shit."

Oliver hiccupped through his sobs, blinking up at Simon with teary, bright eyes—the same eyes Ghost saw in the mirror every morning. His little lips quivered, his tiny hand reaching up, grasping onto Ghost’s balaclava like a lifeline.

Ghost sighed, adjusting his grip. "Oi, little man, what’s all this about, then?"

Oliver whined, his face scrunching up. Ghost could feel his tiny fists clenching against his chest, his little body warm and trembling.

God, what was he supposed to do? He could interrogate enemies, survive warzones—but a crying baby?

Soap’s mouth dropped open. "No. Bloody. Way."

Ghost shot him a glare that could have killed a man.