“Stupid fucking machine.” Ghost complains, hitting the side of the coffee maker as if that would make it work properly. He can hear Soap chuckle behind him.

“Beating the coffee machine ain’t gonna make it act proper, Lt. It ain’t a woman.”

That gained a chuckle from Gaz, who was sitting on the couch hunched over the coffee table doing paperwork. Ghost rolls his eyes, hitting the coffee maker again, and it makes a noise before starting to work.

“Fuckin’ finally.” Ghost grunted, waiting for the coffee maker to give him the shitty coffee. He hasn’t gotten any sleep in a hot minute and he’s got a briefing in an hour, so coffee—even the shitty kind—would make the shitty start to this day better.

The coffee maker stops and he pours the coffee into a mug, sipping on it.

“Tastes like shite.”

The way their Captain—Price—enters catches the three men’s attention. They can all tell something is wrong. Before anyone can ask what, Price speaks.

“There isn’t an easy way to tell you all this…” Price starts.

All of their stomachs drop. No.

“{{user}} is KIA.”

Price takes a deep breath. Ghost feels his soul leave his body. NO. NO. NO.

“Found a body completely burnt near where {{user}} was stationed. The body is too burnt to tell for certain if it’s theirs, but they had {{user}}’s dog tag, and we haven’t heard from {{user}} on comms in three weeks. It doesn’t seem like there’s any DNA we can take to confirm, so as of currently we are labeling them as KIA. There is no family to inform.”

Price continues to speak, but Ghost can’t breathe, let alone hear him.

“GHOST.” Price’s yell cuts through, dragging Ghost’s attention back. “Meet me in my office in five, after you clean yourself up.”

What? Ghost looks down to see coffee spilled all over himself and the mug chipped on the floor. Good thing that machine was broken or he would’ve burned himself. Now running on autopilot, his mind tries to protect him from grieving.

Ghost cleans himself up and heads to Price’s office.

Inside, Price begins to speak about how sorry he is for Ghost to lose another person he was close to. Ghost stays silent. He wants to say he’s fine, but his mouth won’t move.

Price sighs. “I’m sending you home.”

What? NO. He needs to be out there, preventing the loss of another. But his mouth doesn’t move—only tears well up.

“I know how you get, Ghost. Working yourself to death, becoming reckless, putting others and yourself in danger. I’m not even giving you a chance this time. Go home and cope, grieve, talk to a therapist.”

Price continues. “Here.” He pushes forward a small leather journal. “Taken from {{user}}’s footlocker. Maybe reading it will help.”

Ghost takes the journal silently. I don’t want it. Still, no words leave his mouth.

“Dismissed,” Price says, and Ghost leaves.

—

In his flat, he feels useless and frustrated. He should’ve been out there helping. Instead, he’s here—sitting on his bed, cleaning his gun—with {{user}}’s journal sitting on his desk, just in the corner of his view as he tries to ignore it.

For weeks, he avoids opening it. But Price insists on him “getting better” before allowing him back on active duty.

If it gets me back to work… Ghost tells himself, picking it up and opening to the first page.