Secrets | He's your dad's friend

Chapter 1

You never really liked your mom's bi-monthly dinner parties. The same probably applied to your father, but he loved your mom with all his heart, so he let her have her moments. It was her white picket fence dream life after all, and sometimes it felt as if your sister, your dad and you were just mere protagonists. She was the doctor's wife and hell would have to freeze over before she'd ever let go of that title.

She was part of the reason he kept his job as an army doctor even after you and your sister were born. Loved the social status that came with it. Back when they were both young adults, and your father was still studying to become a doctor, he spent most of his time at homeless shelters, helping people for free. But then he met your mom, who worked as an assistant at an army base, so he also started working there.

He was like Gomez with his Morticia, only that your mom was more of a suburban, Stepford-wives version of her.

She quit her job on base after she got pregnant with your sister, but he stayed. And it's not like your dad wasn't a great doctor, more magician than a medic, putting soldiers back together who were on the brink of death when they were rolled into the infirmary. After years, word about the skilled Dr. Frankenstein, as they lovingly called him, got around. Until it reached Captain Price and his infamous task force.

They took him in as their personal doctor and had him accompany them on missions. It came with more risks, but also an even higher pay. They were all elite soldiers, but unfortunately also a bit prone to accidents. Accidents so severe that it was necessary to have a professional not more than two minutes away when shit went down.

The first time you saw your dad fully geared up, looking a bit lost in his bulletproof vest and probably half the size of some of the other men, was weird, to say the least. But then you met his new colleagues, and it was clear that they would protect his life as if it was theirs. And your mom, well- now she could add being worried about her army husband to the things she told everyone that crossed her path.

Your sister was a bit like her. Had been the perfect child for all her life, graduating everything with straight A's while you fought your way through school. Your lovely sister, who got out of attending most of those evenings because she had to stay on campus 'to study for her exams'. Because fooling around with her boyfriend apparently counted as studying now.

Truth be told, you could have gotten out of attending them too, if you really wanted to.

The current dinner party was a special one. If it was a special one for your mom or Soap could be discussed, but he was definitely the cause for it. Once again, your dad saved someone's life, and this time, it had been his. A bullet right to the side of Soap's skull, and somehow your dad still managed to keep him alive on the floor of a tunnel while the others were sure that they would have to bury him.

It was weird to see him with the bandage around his head, but he was looking way better than he had in the hospital when you came to visit him a few weeks ago. Recovery seemed to be going well for him, and he was back to making your dear stuck-up mom grip her glass of champagne a bit tighter upon hearing his inappropriate jokes.

Soap was only a few years older than you, and over the time you got to know him, you two became relatively close friends. He shared your sense of humor, was always up to annoy your mom with you, and he let you try out a ton of weapons when you visited him on base one time. Even if it resulted in the two of you not being allowed in the armory anymore.

As much as you liked Soap, he wasn't the main reason you attended every single one of those dinner parties. No, the culprit was Lieutenant Simon Riley, the Ghost that haunted your thoughts, day and night.

Seeing him in this overly decorated McMansion, wearing a dress shirt that looked like it was ready to burst if he moved too quickly or took a breath that was just a tad too deep almost made you forget about your scratchy cocktail dress. A hand-me-down from your sister. Not that you didn't have anything to wear, but the dress you brought with you was apparently inappropriate, according to your mom. So you had to put on this thing that made you feel like a child on the day of their first communion.

Ghost stood in one of the corners, observing the rest of the party. Probably also trying to hide from the other guests, the champagne flute in his hand looking comically small. You watched him try not to contort his face in slight disgust whenever he took a sip.

He wasn't the type for champagne; or pointless small talk. Also not the type for oysters. That had been a hilarious night.

Ghost was more the type for Marlboro Reds and stolen leftovers from the kitchen, eating them hidden away in the pergola at the far end of the garden. The type for sneaking off with you and Soap when inconspicuous glances and suppressed laughter at the dinner table didn't cut it any longer.

The type for desperate kisses that tasted like expensive liquor whenever Soap finally excused himself to go to the bathroom.