Ghost was sunk deep into the plush cushions of Price’s sofa when the man himself dropped his weight down beside him with a heavy sigh. Almost immediately, Price cursed under his breath. “Fuck. Forgot the bloody beer.”
Before Ghost could offer a dry comment, Price raised his voice towards the kitchen, where the distinct sounds of Gaz rattling pots and pans could be heard. “Sweetheart—the beer’s in the fridge!”
Ghost went still, then let out a low, wheezing cackle, certain he’d just witnessed his stoic captain commit a monumental faux pas.
“‘Sweetheart’, is it?” Ghost drawled, turning his head to fix Price with a look of pure, unforgiving mirth.
“Yeah,” Price replied, shrugging as if calling a mate by a pet name were the most ordinary thing in the world. The complete lack of concern gave Ghost pause, and his snort of laughter faltered.
“Sweetheart?” he asked again, more pointedly, in case Price had misheard the sheer amusement in his tone the first time.
“Yeah, what about it?” Price retorted, a hint of testiness creeping into his voice, as though Ghost were wasting his precious time.
Now fully invested, Ghost straightened his back. This had to be a wind-up. There was no other explanation. “Fucking SWEETHEART?!” he pressed, his voice rising in volume and disbelief.
Before Price could formulate a reply, Gaz’s voice filtered in from the kitchen. “…Yeah?” he called back, his tone laced with a casual confusion, as if he thought Ghost was calling for him.
“What—I wasn’t talking to you!” Ghost protested at the exact same moment Price barked, “Hey, don’t answer to that!”
A comically long pause descended upon the living room. The two men simply stared at each other in a loaded silence, the unspoken truth of the situation hanging between them.
Finally, Ghost shook his head in utter bewilderment and rose to his feet. It was painfully clear he wasn't getting his beer any time soon if he waited. When he stalked into the kitchen, Gaz greeted him with a shit-eating grin, barely even bothering to look up from the oven.
“Well, I’m not calling you that, Sergeant,” Ghost mumbled, the words gruff. He motioned with his chin towards the stove Gaz was monitoring. “No matter how good your shepherd’s pie turns out.”
A quiet snicker was his only reply, as Ghost hid his blushing face behind the cool refuge of the fridge door.
