Ghost sat there, a hamburger in hand as he looked over at his team.
Johnny was laughing—his head under Gaz’s arm where he was pinning him, messing up his mohawk.
The captain was sitting across from them, next to Simon, watching the two youngest on the team act like siblings fighting over the last fry. There was a single crown sitting on the table between their trays, likely left there from the family before them.
“Nae, I should ge’ the crown, I’m the VIP this mission,” he crows, having already waxed poetically about his jerry-rigged bomb that got them entry into the base.
Kyle wasn’t going down without a fight though, “Absolutely not! The crown should be mine, you never would’ve been able to set your charges if I hadn’t cleared that tower,” he insisted, hand ruffling Johnny’s hair aggressively.
Ghost continued to eat his burger through the commotion, sneaking bites beneath the mask when everyone’s attention was pulled to the Scot as he screeched in mock outrage, attempting to protect his hair.
The next instant felt a slight weight pressing down on his head, the corner of his gaze catching his captain pulling his arm back down.
“If we’re going for most valuable to the mission,” he chimes in, deep grumble causing both sergeants to pause in their rough housing, “then I think Ghost gets to wear the crown tonight.”
And just like that, the fight was over. Soap and Gaz settled down to finish their food, arguments not over—just switched to different topics, as Ghost sat frozen in his seat. His neck muscles ached, clenched as they were as if he were holding up the weight of the world, heat rising through his face as he was thankful for his balaclava for hiding him from view.
If the crown ended up in his room until the color was too faded to distinguish anymore, that was no one’s business but his own.
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Snippet inspired by artwork from @mari-alune
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