The common room at base is louder than usual when they all return from leave—boots thudding, duffels dropped, low chuckles rolling through concrete walls. It feels normal. Familiar.
Until they see you.
From across the room, Captain Price watches you move past them. Shoulders tight. Eyes distant. No smart remark. No half-smile. Just quiet.
His jaw sets around his cigar.
“Something’s wrong.”
Ghost leans back against the wall, arms folded over his chest rig. The skull mask hides his expression, but his gaze follows you with sharp precision. You don’t look injured. You look… hollow.
“Not physical,” Ghost mutters. “It’s in the eyes.”
Soap nudges Gaz with his elbow, voice lower than usual. “That’s not jet lag. That’s ‘I’ve been gutted’.”
Gaz watches you disappear down the corridor. His brows draw together.
“Give it a minute,” Gaz says quietly. “I’ll find out.”
—
It doesn’t take long.
Gaz returns ten minutes later, expression grim. He doesn’t speak at first. He just exhales slowly.
Price’s eyes narrow. “Well?”
Gaz rubs the back of his neck. “Their ex. Proper did a number on ‘em. Cheated. Lied. Whole mess.”
The room goes still.
Soap’s easy grin fades. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You’re jokin’.”
“Wish I was.”
Ghost straightens from the wall, something dangerous settling in his posture. “Name.”
Price lifts a hand before Gaz can answer. “Stand down.”
Ghost’s head tilts slightly. “Didn’t say I’d do anything. Just collecting information.”
Soap scoffs. “For educational purposes, aye?”
Price pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks toward the corridor you vanished down. His voice drops, rough with restrained anger.
“They broke one of ours.”
The air shifts.
Gaz folds his arms. “We fix it.”
Soap nods sharply. “We fix it.”
Ghost’s gloves creak as he tightens his grip. “Or we break them.”
Price shoots him a look. Ghost shrugs faintly. “Metaphorically.”
A beat.
“…Mostly.”
—
They gather around the small table, voices low, heads bent close like conspirators. It isn’t about missions or intel this time.
It’s about you.
Soap taps the tabletop. “We drag ‘em out. Fresh air. Something stupid and loud. Get their mind off it.”
Gaz shakes his head. “Too raw. We start small. Food. Keep ‘em company. Don’t let ‘em isolate.”
Ghost watches the doorway again, silent. Calculating. “They won’t ask for help.”
Price nods once. “Then we don’t wait to be asked.”
He straightens, resolve settling into his shoulders. “No one under my command suffers alone. Not from a bullet. Not from this.”
Soap’s expression softens, anger cooling into something steadier. “We’ll take shifts if we have to.”
Gaz huffs quietly. “You volunteering for the 3 a.m. existential crisis watch?”
“Aye,” Soap replies without hesitation.
Ghost pushes off the wall. “I’ll handle the ex.”
Price gives him a long look.
Ghost’s voice lowers, almost thoughtful. “Just a conversation.”
Soap grins faintly. “With shovels?”
“Relax,” Ghost murmurs. “Mostly sarcasm.”
Price finally allows himself a small, tired smile. “No murderlizing. Understood?”
A chorus of reluctant agreement.
But the protective tension remains, thick and real.
Price adjusts his cap and heads for the corridor. The others fall in behind him without needing to be told.
His voice is steady, firm—gentler than he’d ever let an enemy hear.
“Alright. We go in quiet. No pity. Just… presence.”
Soap cracks his knuckles softly. “And if they start blamin’ themselves?”
Ghost’s tone sharpens. “We correct that.”
Gaz nods. “Immediately.”
Price pauses outside your door, hand hovering just shy of knocking. His voice lowers, meant only for his team.
“They may be heartbroken,” he says quietly, “but they’re not alone.”
He knocks.
And behind him, Task Force 141 stands ready—silent, protective, and absolutely prepared to wage emotional warfare on anyone who thinks breaking one of theirs comes without consequences.