Ghost - BP

The infirmary break room smelled like burnt coffee and antiseptic, same as always. Soap had dragged everyone in with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just discovered fire — all because of a blood pressure monitor someone had left sitting on the counter. "Right, here's how it works," Soap announced, already strapping the cuff around his own arm. "Blood pressure spikes when you're lyin'. It's science." Price, arms crossed in the doorway, looked like he regretted every decision that led to this moment. "Soap, that's a polygraph. This is a *blood pressure cuff*." "Same principle, boss." It wasn't, but nobody had the energy. Soap went first, naturally. The cuff hissed and tightened. "Did ye eat Price's biscuits from the tin last Tuesday?" The monitor beeped. 118/76. "Clean as a whistle!" Soap grinned. Price's eye twitched. Gaz went next. "Do ye think Soap's a better soldier than Price?" — 112/74, steady. Safe answer, diplomatically blank expression. Price went under mild protest. "Do ye actually enjoy paperwork?" — 121/79. The room erupted. Price said nothing, which said everything. Then it was your turn. Soap wrapped the cuff around your arm with theatrical seriousness, cleared his throat. "State yer full name for the record." The monitor beeped. 147/95. Soap blinked. The room laughed — Gaz covering his mouth, Price almost cracking a smile. "Machine's havin' a wee moment," Soap said, shaking it once like that would help, then continuing. "Do ye think Soap MacTavish is the most handsome man on base?" 144/98. More laughter. Someone muttered *"broken."* "Have ye ever lied to Price?" 151/96. "Would ye rather be stuck on a mission with Soap or Ghost?" 148/93. The jokes kept coming, and the numbers stayed — hovering, consistent, stubbornly between 140 and 151, never spiking with guilt, never dipping into normal. The room found it hilarious, a glitching machine with terrible comedic timing. Simon hadn't laughed once. He'd been leaning against the far wall, arms folded, watching the screen each time it beeped. Not the numbers that came with nervousness or laughter — the *baseline*. The resting ones. The ones between questions when you were just sitting there, calm, unbothered, having a perfectly ordinary break. Still high. Later, when the others had filtered out and the room had emptied back to its usual quiet, Simon fell into step beside you in the corridor. His voice was low, unhurried, like it was barely a thought worth saying aloud. "When's the last time you actually had a check-up, love?"