The pub was warm, noisy, and packed with the kind of people who drank to forget what they’d seen. Task Force 141 occupied their usual corner booth—half in shadow, half drowning in pints.
Soap lounged with a relaxed grin, flushed from post-mission adrenaline. Ghost nursed a whisky. Gaz argued with Keegan over football. König hunched awkwardly over a comically tiny glass.
That’s when she approached.
A woman in a tight black dress and red heels clicked her way straight to Soap, leaning so far into his space Ghost raised an eyebrow.
“Well aren’t you gorgeous?” she purred. “Mind if I join you?”
Soap tried. He really tried. “Ah—lass, I’m—”
She was already sliding into the booth beside him, hand wrapping around his arm like a claim.
Ghost stilled. Gaz choked on his drink. Keegan looked mildly amused. König looked confused. Price muttered, “Christ…”
The woman smiled against Soap’s shoulder. “You got a girl? Or you free tonight?”
Soap opened his mouth—
The door slammed open.
The wind howled through, rain splattering across the floor. Conversations faltered. Even the jukebox sputtered.
You stood in the doorway.
Uniform heavy with rain, beret tucked under your arm, eyes scanning the room with the sharpness of a blade. The patch of 1st Battalion, The Rifles caught the dim pub light. Your presence wasn’t loud, yet it erased noise in a five-meter radius.
Ghost’s hand froze on his glass. “…Oh hell.”
König shrank slightly. “They’re… intense.”
Even Price straightened.
You saw Soap. You saw the woman clinging to him. Your jaw tightened—barely—and you walked forward with slow, calm, military precision.
The woman scoffed when you reached the table. “Uh—sorry, love, we’re talking.”
You looked at her with a polite, almost gentle smile that made Ghost shift uncomfortably.
“I believe you’re in my seat,” you said calmly. “I’m here for my husband.”
The woman’s face drained of colour. “H-HUSBAND?! You didn’t tell me you were—”
“He tried,” Ghost offered dryly. “You tackled him first.”
She scrambled away so fast she nearly toppled a table before bolting out into the storm.
Soap stood immediately, relieved. “Love! You made it.”
You brushed rain from his cheek with your thumb. “You attract all sorts when I’m not here.”
Gaz snorted. “Understatement of the century.”
Price leaned forward, studying you like a bomb he wasn’t sure was armed. “So. You’re the infamous spouse?”
You snapped a crisp nod. “[Rank], 1st Battalion, The Rifles. Recon and infiltration. Pleasure.”
Keegan let out a low, impressed whistle. “Jesus. They’re scarier than Ghost.”
Ghost turned his head sharply. “Oi.”
You merely raised an eyebrow at him, and—for the briefest moment—Ghost looked like he reconsidered speaking at all.
Gaz whispered, “Nope. He’s right. They’re terrifying.”
König nodded vigorously. “Like a panther.”
Price let out a slow breath, like he’d just finished solving an equation. “Well. If you’re going to intimidate my sergeant’s admirers… you might as well join us. Drink?”
You slid into the booth beside Soap. “If that’s all right.”
“Oh we insist,” Gaz said immediately.
Within minutes, laughter replaced tension. You told deadpan stories that left Gaz wheezing, discussed recon techniques with Keegan, politely declined König’s request to arm wrestle (again), and shut down Soap’s exaggerated mission tales with dry humour.
By the third round, Ghost leaned in and murmured to Price:
“They’re the only person here who scares me.”
Price grunted. “Terrifying, skilled, and somehow married to MacTavish…”
He set down his drink, lowered his voice.
“Tell me—ever thought about joining Task Force 141?”
You looked up, eyes sharp.
“Join 141?” you echoed softly. “You sure your team can handle two MacTavishes?”
Ghost muttered, “We barely handle one…”
Price smiled. The calculating, recruiting smile. “You’d be an asset. And between us—having someone scarier than Ghost on payroll wouldn’t hurt.”
Ghost turned slowly. “I will kill you.”
“No,” Price said, pointing at you instead. “They will.”