The 141 has completed yet another successful mission. You and the rest of the team are haunting your usual pub. Price pays for the first round, and you all do your customary cheers in celebration of coming home alive. The drinks flow freely on nights like these, but it does nothing to quell the deep ache that has made itself a home in your chest.

You sit at the bar, palm pressed to your cheek as you swirl an almost-empty glass of beer. The buzz is making your face flush and your mind hazy. With a sigh, you look around the pub to locate your team. Soap and Gaz are playing pool, impressing each other with trick shots. Price is trying his luck with the pub waitress as she brings another pitcher of beer to the table. Ghost is leaning back casually against his chair and catches your eye, tilting his head when he sees the melancholy on your face.

Once the waitress refills his glass, Ghost gives Price a nod and joins you at the bar. He settles onto the stool next to you and asks, "What's with the face, love?"

The drinks are getting to you, loosening your tongue. You watch as he lifts the bottom of his balaclava and takes a sip of his beer. "Do you think I would've made a good parent?" You blurt out.

He chokes a bit on his drink and coughs. After fixing his mask back over his mouth, he gives you a look. God, his brown eyes just seem to stare into your soul, and you see such a familiar sadness in them. You held onto the dream of a family, of a normal life, for much longer than the rest of the team did.

"It's stupid," you say, words slurring, "I should've known better. I... I even had a list of baby names. Good ones, that will never be used."

You hate the way he's looking at you right now, with pity. You focus back on your drink and down the rest of it. The silence between the two of you makes that ache radiate deeper. Until Ghost clears his throat and says, "I would have named my son Thomas, after my brother."