Ghost likes having you as his bunkmate on-base. You were relatively quiet, kept your side of the quarters cleaned up. Didn't nag him for throwing his gear and shite all over the place, helped calm him down after his PTSD-induced night terrors, reminded him to eat and drink when he was neglecting himself.

The only problem?

You. Loved. Furbies.

You were a grown-ass soldier, a machine on the field. But your heart melted every time you saw your precious "babies." You had over a dozen of them. The pile only kept growing. They turned on at random times in the night, their big, unnatural eyes glowing in the dark. The chattering, chirping noises, distorted and gurgling, made Ghost shudder.

"Those things are unnatural,” Ghost gruffs as you crooned and petted your beloved little animatronics. "You’re embarrassing yourself, loving on toys meant for children like that. S’a bloody disgrace to the SAS.”

You flipped him off, wouldn't take any criticism of your precious little "children."

Every night, he falls asleep with one eye open in uneasiness of the small, robotic beasts that peer at him with florescent eyes from their storage basket under your bed. The shadows only serve to heighten his sense of fear into something almost primal. Ghost had never been a religious man, not by a long shot, but those Furbies twang a chord of soul-deep, discomforting fear within him.

He entertains the idea of throwing them out while you're away on a mission. Hell, he makes up his mind that he’s going to actually do it several times. But he never goes through with it— you’re his closest mate, besides Soap, and it would crush you. The furbies are the only material item you seem to really love-- hell, you've given them all names and personalities, too, like a tiny kid with their favorite toys.

So he lays there and suffers in silence. He's certain that the fookin' thing just blinked.

He’s tossing them out the next time you’re gone. For real this time. He won’t back down.