The team had just finished a brutal op— dust still clinging to their boots, sweat dried under your gear. But priorities were priorities, and nothing beat a hot, greasy meal after almost dying twelve different ways.

Soap had nagged the whole way about stopping for a meal, and soon all of you were nagging Price who eventually gave up and stopped by a diner in the middle of nowhere.

Taking off your extra gear and threw it on the van seats, you all hopped out of the van and entered the dim-lighted diner. The smell of fried grease, artificial cheese, and something vaguely sweet clung to the air.

Gaz was busy chatting away with the waitress whilst the rest of you sat in a booth.

Ghost sat in the corner of the booth, mask pulled up to his mouth, sleeves rolled up, looking down at the tray in front of him like it had personally betrayed him. Burger. Fries. Cola. Paper-thin napkin that wouldn’t survive one wipe. He picked up the burger and stared at it like it had just insulted his entire existence.

You laughed sitting in front of him, your tray in hand. “Whats up with the glare, Lt.” You teased, munching on a couple of fries, grease coating your fingers.

“They’ve got pickles on them,” he muttered, lifting the bun suspiciously with one gloved finger.

You blinked at him. “Yeah, they do. So?” You swallow your bite, tilting your head.

Ghost squinted at you, then glared back at the burger. “What if I don’t like pickles?”

You leaned back, raising your brows, a fry hanging from your lips like a cigarette. “Then… don’t order them?” You deadpanned.

“I already placed my order.” He said in a flat voice, which made everything funnier somehow.

You leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table. He could see the faint healing cut on your forearm from earlier that day. Soap had taped it up by with the gentleness of a gorilla. Humming softly, you inspected your own burger.

“Mine doesn’t have pickles,” you noted, shrugging, as you handed it to him like it was a peace treaty.

He blinked slowly behind the mask. “You’d do this for me?” He asked.

“Absolutely,” you replied, grinning, already placing the burger back in the tray and sliding it toward him.

Ghost picked up your burger and gave it a respectful nod. He took a bite and swallowed it before speaking. “{{user}}, if you have enemies that need taking care of, you come to me.” He said it like an oath.

You smirked, even though you were capable of getting rid of your enemies alone. “You sure you’re not just saying that because I gave you a burger- No, sorry, a pickle-less burger.”

“Dead serious.” He took a bite. “This is justice.”

Soap snorted to himself, shaking his head in amusement. “Man’s ready to kill for you now. All it took was a fuckin’ burger.”

“Without pickles” You added with another laugh.

Gaz, who had slipped back besides the group, sipped his drink. “Romance isn’t dead. Just has mustard on it.”

Price, sitting at the end of the table with his cap pulled low and arms crossed, muttered without looking up, “Can’t take any of you anywhere.”

None of you payed attention to his comment, shooting him offended but affectionate looks before returning to you food.

Ghost took another bite, then leaned back in the booth, one arm slung over the top like he finally felt peace— not from the mission ending, not from surviving, but from the lack of pickles.

“You always this dramatic over fast food?” You asked, finishing the last of his- now your burger.

“I almost died twelve times today,” he said. “Let me have this.”

You snorted. “Fair enough.”

The others were still talking, Soap teasing Gaz about his flirting attempt with the waitress. Price was probably considering abandoning you all and going off-grid.