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Aside from Soap, Ghost, and a smattering of other soldiers to make sure operations are still able to run as usual, the base has turned into somewhat of a ghost town on Christmas.
It’s strangely nice. Peaceful, in a distant sense of the word.
This isn’t Soap’s first time using work to hide from Christmas, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last—but it’s his first time staying behind on base for the holiday as a part of 141, which he feels carries some significance.
Inexplicably, but nonetheless.
Christmas breakfast consists of whatever most-edible food Soap can scavenge so early in the day. The sun has yet to rise, Soap is alone, and despite his less-than-enjoyable meal, he feels content.
He is content.
A voice, low and still aching with sleep, startles behind him. “What are you still doing here, Johnny?”
Soap shrugs as Ghost slides into the seat next to him. He’s been made well aware of his lieutenant’s aversion to the holiday, and it’s of no surprise Ghost is, also, still on base. “I’m not really one for Christmas, sir.”
Ghost grunts in reply. He reaches for something off Soap’s tray, settling on the untouched apple that had been a bit too bruised for Soap to consider eating just yet. Ghost rolls up the hem of his mask to take a bite, folding it back down as soon as he starts chewing though they’re alone in mess.
“Why not?” He asks mildly.
Soap shrugs again. “No point in goin’ home if there’s no one to go home to,” he says simply. After a moment, he decides to push his tray away and abandon his food, angling his body toward Ghost. “Sir.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. Soap supposes he hadn’t taken much of a liking to the apple, either, as the yellow flesh grows brown in its desertion. His eyes are unreadable as always, dark and contemplative of something Soap would never know.
“You have plans today, Lt?” Soap wonders. “I’d assume not, if you’re seeking me out.”
“Wasn’t looking for you, Sergeant,” Ghost says flatly. “You just beat me here.”
Soap hums. “Sure.”
He gets up to throw out his food, not waiting for whatever it is that Ghost might’ve said or done. Soap doesn’t expect him to follow, but the soft footfall that eventually trails behind him isn’t all that surprising. They’d both be bored that day, with little work to achieve and no upcoming missions to concern themselves with. And with the rest of 141 on holidays, it only makes sense for them to be each other’s company for their Christmas, or lack thereof.
“You never answered my question,” Soap remarks in passing. The barely-eaten apple lands in the trash with a thunk as Ghost tosses it. As if he had forgotten, Soap adds, “If you had any plans.”
Ghost shakes his head. “Negative,” he says. “Got an earful from Price about taking the day off before he left, if I’m not on leave. Hear it every year.”
Soap laughs. He doesn’t find the admission unusual—he’s gotten plenty of similar talks from Price to know the weight his threats hold. The captain could instil fear in anyone, even men like Ghost, and it’d be laughable if Soap hadn’t been personally subjected to the feeling himself.
“Sounds like Price.” Soap pauses a moment to think, entirely unmindful of the way Ghost watches. “We’ll find something to do, then.”
Without protest, their agreement is unspoken. There isn’t much to do, unfortunately, so their only immediate option other than to sit and talk—which, in all honesty, Soap wouldn’t mind, but he knows Ghost better than that—is to grapple.
Which is a painful way for Soap to spend Christmas, for a multitude of reasons.
He isn’t inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat, not by any means, but he isn’t Ghost, either. He ends up on the floor more than he’d be proud to admit, and by the time he has to call it quits his body aches like he’d been hit by a truck. Or punched, kicked, and pinned by his lieutenant, not with a dissimilar stature.
Their last fight ends with, predictably, Soap’s face being pressed into the floor by Ghost’s palm, an arm pinned down by a knee and the other twisted uncomfortably around his back. Ghost’s weight digs into Soap’s spine.
“Concede, MacTavish?” Ghost asks amusedly, because of course seeing Soap lose brings him joy.
Soap’s speech is muffled with the way his cheek is squished against cold concrete. “Conceded a while ago, Simon.”
Relief washes over him as Ghost lets go and stands. He steps over Soap’s tired body and crouches next to him, offering out a hand to help him up. Soap waves him away, groaning as he rolls onto his back. Though he can’t see it, he knows Ghost is grinning beneath his mask.
“Glad we’re on the same team,” Soap mutters. Ghost laughs, and sits down next to him as Soap wishes to melt into the floor. He’s already halfway there.
Ghost jabs a finger in Soap’s side, and Soap flinches. “You’re smaller than me. Use that to your advantage,” he advises.
Soap lolls his head to the side to peer up at Ghost. “I don’t think that’s the only problem.”
“It is if you were better at fighting.”
Soap throws out an arm and smacks Ghost’s leg with the back of his hand. “Away n’ bile yer heid, ya bastard.”
The quaint silence that befalls them is terribly intimate. Soap doesn’t bother moving from the floor just yet, closing his eyes and trying to ignore Ghost’s quiet presence next to him. It’s only late morning now, and Soap is beginning to feel uncertain about how he’s meant to survive the rest of the day with no one but his lieutenant.
Beside him, Ghost sighs, which coaxes Soap to open his eyes again. Soap glances over at Ghost, eyebrows drawn together with curiosity. The sigh hadn’t been frustrated, or tired, or anything, really, as far as Soap could place it.
“What’s got you bothered?” Soap asks.
“Nothing of your concern,” Ghost replies. A beat, “Merry Christmas, Johnny.”
Soap scoffs, finally pushing himself to sit, wincing at the soreness of his muscles. A grin tugs at his face despite the shock of pain. “Not sure I’d call this feeling merry.”
Ghost turns his head, eyes narrowed at Soap. “And whose fault is that?”
“Yours, I’d argue.” Soap nudges Ghost with his elbow. He starts to stand, bracing himself with Ghost’s shoulder. When he’s on his feet, he holds out his hand for Ghost to follow, who, unlike Soap, accepts the help. Soap quickly regrets offering, however, when their chests are briefly pressed together because apparently neither of them have a proper regard for space. Soap is the first to step away.
Albeit reluctantly.
Soap lifts his chin, a confident gesture to try and ignore the way his heart skips a beat. “Next time,” he huffs. “I’m going to win one.”
“That’s wishful thinking, Sergeant,” Ghost says.
“You’re a right prick, sometimes, you know,” Soap retorts, though his voice carries none of the venom the accusation implies, and Ghost recognizes it.
Ghost hums, a teasing lilt in the timbre of the sound. “Have to keep you in line somehow, Johnny.”
If it were anyone else, the prominence of the smile in his voice would be annoying. Since it isn’t, all Soap does is roll his eyes exasperatedly before making for the showers. He really doesn’t need to be realizing things about himself today.
Or any day, really. He’s satisfied enough in who he is.
In the meantime of their hours spent alone together, hidden away, Christmas decorations had been erected and plastered all over base, sparsely placed yet all equally, dreadfully as garish.
“Where were they even keeping all this shite?”
Extremely helpfully, Ghost just shrugs.
“Right,” Soap says, responding as if he’d received a spoken answer, “why would you have business knowing?”
Ghost looks at him, amused. “Contrary to popular belief, Soap, I don’t actually know everything.”
“Quite the confession, Ghost.” Soap grins up at the lieutenant. “Not afraid I’m going to tell everyone you’re not actually omniscient?”
“I’d kill you first,” Ghost quips. Soap isn’t entirely sure if he’s joking—he wouldn’t put it past his lieutenant to mean it, no matter how close they were—but Soap has to assume he’s all right for the time being.
It’s Christmas after all, even if neither of the two were celebrating.
And they’re standing awfully close.
“Does the unknowledgeable Ghost fancy something to eat?” Soap asks, cutting through the shared tension that spans the little room between them. He thinks if he had let it grow any thicker, he’d suffocate.
Ghost’s eyebrows draw together in mock anger—though perhaps, genuine irritation. “Don’t push your luck.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Soap says sweetly. “You must be mistaken.”
Soap waits for insult, but watches as it’s withheld and dies on Ghost’s tongue.
It’s safe to say they get food. Scavenged from the canteen, they take it to Ghost’s office to eat for privacy. It’s much too busy in mess now, for Ghost to want to lift his balaclava and confirm any suspicion that he might be human. Soap is both more than all right with the choice and horribly afraid of the rapport associated with sneaking away to share a meal by their lonesome, away from prying eyes.
But if the few people on base that day talk, so be it. Soap would just rather remain ignorant.
Soap sits contentedly on Ghost’s desk as they eat. Ghost had scolded him, pointing to the empty chair meant for others when needed, but never actually makes an effort to move Soap when he’s ignored.
“This is merrier,” Soap says around a mouthful of food. “Now that I’m not getting my arse kicked.”
Ghost winces in disgust. “It’d be merrier if you swallowed your food before speaking,” he grouses. “You ever learn manners, MacTavish?”
“I did.” Soap nods. “But you’ll live, won’t you, Lt?”
The corners of Ghost’s mouth briefly tick downward in some passing vexation Soap never would have known had the mask been pulled down. It doesn’t last long, though, so Soap can assume the grievance had been filed away for another time.
Again, it’s Christmas, and they are far too close.
Soap’s gaze falls to the floor.
“Didya see some rookies were hangin’ up mistletoe above random office doors?” He asks absentmindedly. Soap picks up a limp, sickly-looking green bean from his score and shoves it in his mouth. “Saw a few poor bastards get caught on the way here.”
Ghost blinks at him, uninterested. “That so?”
“Aye.” Soap nods, jokingly solemn. Ghost makes an indiscernible noise as he bites into his sandwich. “Not sure they’re actually poor to be ensnared like that, though. Probably the most those guys get in months. Be true for me, at least.”
Ghost makes another sound, this time something suspiciously close to a laugh. Soap stares at him, not menacingly, but not quite pacifistic either.
“Something funny to you, sir?”
Ghost shakes his head, but a telling mirthful smile is undeniable with the balaclava folded up. “Not a thing, Johnny,” he says. “I wouldn’t ever laugh at your incompetence.”`
Soap frowns. “And you’re doing better these days?”
Ever the arsehole, Ghost makes a noncommittal gesture and returns to eating his sandwich. He’s actually incorrigible, Soap decides, and it was a mistake ever getting to know him. Soap tells him as much, as they continue their meal, but Ghost doesn’t seem all too bothered.
They finish eating, chat longer, and suddenly the sun is setting and their version of Christmas is fading to a close. The base is still quiet, empty, and Soap would mourn the setting—and admittedly, the time alone with Ghost—but so is life.
It becomes time to retire. Ghost is the first to stand and first to the door, but Soap isn’t so far behind. The lock clicks open and the door is swung backward, and for a short yet eternal moment, the world stands impossibly still.
A sprig of plastic mistletoe had been taped above the doorway to Ghost’s office while they’d been inside.
“It’s just stupid tradition,” Soap tells Ghost. He isn’t certain who he’s attempting to reassure. Soap pushes past Ghost to peer into the corridor beyond in check of witnesses. “Hall’s empty. No one’s gonna care if we don’t do it.”
Ghost catches Soap’s wrist as he isn’t looking, and Soap freezes.
“I might,” Ghost admits quietly. “If you don’t mind. Johnny.”
Soap’s mouth suddenly feels too dry. Only then does he realize Ghost’s lips are still uncovered. He wets his own. “No, I don’t,” he rasps after a long pause, “I don’t mind. Simon.”
The world isn’t still anymore, but it moves in slow motion. Ghost ducks his head to meet Soap in the middle, hooking a finger under Soap’s chin. Soap cups Ghost’s jaw as they kiss, even daring to slip his thumbs beneath the fabric of the mask. He brushes over scars he hopes to one day have the time to memorize, careful as he traces over every divot and line.
Soap sighs into the kiss, inhaling everything Ghost before they break for air. He’s the striking smell of gunpowder and aftershave; he’s the faint taste of tobacco and something mint to hide it. He’s Simon Riley, and Soap curses himself for waiting so long to kiss him.
“You didn’t tell a rookie to set this up, did you?” Soap teases. One arm has fallen back to his side, but his other hand still explores the composition of Ghost’s face with admiration, now that he’s been allowed it.
Ghost huffs. “I wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“Sure,” Soap breathes. His thumb moves over the curve of Ghost’s bottom lip, swollen and chapped. “So if I wanted to kiss you again…?”
Ghost’s eyes bore into him with something untold, but also something soft. Soap thinks he could get used to being looked at like that.
After a moment, Ghost’s lips curve upward. Him wordlessly closing the gap between them again is answer enough.
As they kiss, Ghost reaches past Soap and plucks the mistletoe from the doorway before guiding them both back into the office. Soap kicks the door shut behind him.
Maybe Christmas still has some good in it after all.