141 was a renowned international counter-terrorist group, meaning that you had to travel. A lot. And usually when a translator was not available in discussions, you were the obvious next choice.

The lot of you were speaking in a meeting in Alsace, arguing with an ally group, yourself converting Price's words into delicate French, Ghost watching you admirably as you did, his stomach curling with every rolling R, and every hard, spitting letter.

He approached you when the talks were done, his hands cradling your hips as he whispered into your ear.

".. gods, you sounded hawt back there. How many mo' tongues can ye belt with tha' pretty mouth of yours, luv?" he cooed.