Not All Shells are Hollow

A Fateless Night

In the days following their return from Ukraine, Ghost found himself the subject of Credenhill's rumor mill. Word spread pretty fast of his ballsy gambit, and parts of the story got exaggerated to their logical extremes as a result: how he slipped into class with the hostages before getting taken down, took out every terrorist in the room before Langley and the others could rappel in, somehow stalled them a half hour past deadline... The list went on.

One of the more amusing things, which he sadly missed out on, was MacTavish apparently losing his cool over the comms about how long he was stalling. That particular rumor warped into a joke that MacTavish may even just straight up have a thing for the Lieutenant. At least, Ghost hoped it was a joke. If it wasn't, then this got out of hand.

In precisely three days, Price caught wind of the rumors and had everyone gather up outside in the cold so he could lecture them on being a bunch of "chatty bastards" for approximately an hour. No further punishment. He didn't try to find who started the rumors, just dismissed everyone with the promise that "Next time, whoever starts rumors like this again will be stuck doing training with MacTavish." Nobody wanted to do even half of the fitness madman's regiment, so the rumors were deader than a door nail.

All this led up to now. Ghost gathered up his keys and wallet from the desk in his dorm. He and Langley had plotted a night on the town after that assembly, since neither of them would be on duty tomorrow. They'd hang out at one of the pubs in Hereford, discuss the mission, find a place to crash, and head back to the base the next morning with hopefully not too bad a hangover.

First part went over pretty well. Langley directed him to this little under spoken joint with a rustic appeal. The lights from inside cast a warm glow in the chilled December night. Each time the door swung open, classic rock wafted out along with the lively sounds of laughter and conversation. Ghost couldn't help but smile as he drank in the atmosphere on their way to the bar.

Langley cast a dimpled grin as he took a seat. "Is that a genuine smile there, mate?"

Ghost rolled his eyes. "Maybe." He turned his attention to the bartender. "Gin, please." He tapped his foot to the beat of Killer Queen.

"Pint of stout for me," Langley added. While they waited for their drinks, he nudged Ghost. "Sooo, how'd you keep those guys distracted so long? You were in there a whole hour."

Ghost shrugged. "I just was telling stories, tried to be engaging."

"You ought to write a book if you can grab their attention in a situation like that," Langley remarked.

He couldn't help but laugh. Him an author? Maybe in another life. At that time, they got their drinks, and Ghost downed about half the small glass.

"What kind of story were you telling them?"

"Oh, just some old war stories from my days in the SAS. I did a lot of embellishing though." That much was true. He painted himself to sound like an action hero, played up the fighting a lot... In truth, his survival was largely due to his own caution and quiet approach. He didn't once try to tackle a problem guns ablaze. When it was all said and done, he didn't earn his nickname because he killed his old self. Shepherd called him Ghost because he evaded capture on a manhunt and snuck into a military base largely undetected.

He wouldn't tell Langley any of that though. He didn't have to. The simple answer he provided was more than enough for his comrade, who bumped his shoulder. "Trying to impress the little girls? That blonde one really took a shining to you."

"It must have been a very impressive story then."

You've got to be fucking with me... Ghost prayed he didn't just hear that in the voice he heard it. Pinching himself and slamming back the rest of his glass didn't change anything though. When he turned around, he saw MacTavish approach them. Ghost forced a smile and gave a very dry laugh. "Captain... What are you doing here?"