You had been with the 141 for a few months now, and if the rest of the team decided to, they could count on one single hand the amount of times they’d each ever heard you speak. You were more prone to using Sign Language to communicate, and made soft hums over comms if you were in the field with others.

Gaz and Price chalked it up to your lone wolf nature, Soap joked that you took your stealth ops specialty too seriously, and Ghost…. Well Ghost saw how you observed everyone, always listening intently and watching.

He recognized that you preferred not to talk but to listen. It led to an unlikely sense of companionship when the whole team was sent out together, as you tended to stick to the edges of the safe house rooms and Ghost tended to gravitate towards your calm and quiet nature.

He sat down at the little kitchen table beside you after one such mission—the team waiting in some dodgy little safe-house on the outskirts of town for the heat to die down so they could coordinate exfil—and dropped a cup of tea in front of you before rucking his balaclava up to the bridge of his nose, exposing his mouth in order to sip from his own mug.

The rim had just touched his lips when he heard your quiet voice thank him for the tea and he froze.

“Nothin’ to thank me for,” he said gruffly, his gravelly voice with its thick Manchester accent somehow a touch deeper as he shifted in his seat.