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“It’s big,” Soap says.
Ghost’s eyes slide over to him. Behind the balaclava Soap can see the man’s cheeks bunch, eyes squinting in what he imagines is a shit-eating grin.
Soap scowls at him, resists the urge to stick his tongue out (though the spiked eggnog he’s already consumed certainly makes a compelling case for it) “Not you, that bloody monster.” He nods to the tree. “Where’d Nik even find that his thing, Brobdingnag?”
Ghost raises a brow. “Gesundheit”
“No it’s— you’ve never read Gulliver's travels?
When Ghost gives him a flat look Soap waves a hand at him dismissively. “Never mind.” He cranes his neck up to look at the massive Fir before him.
He’s considering the task of finding and climbing a ladder to reach the top of the thing when Gaz and Price return, arms full of boxes of ornaments and other decorations. “Laswell and her wife send their regards,” Price says.
“And prayers,” Gaz adds, setting his load down and coming to stand beside Soap, arms crossed as he considers the tree. “Thing’s a bloody beast, you’d think Nik got it from Brobdingnag.”
Soap shoots Ghost a cheeky grin over Gaz’s shoulder, ignores the man’s eye roll, and claps Garrick on the back. “Knew you were a man of culture. Now!” He rubs his hands together, “let’s get this Fir Spruced up!”
“You’ve been hanging around Ghost too much.” Gaz deadpans.
Soap laughs, accepts the light knock on the shoulder from Gaz as he looks again to Ghost, who’s shaking his head, but his eyes are crinkled in a fond smile.
Soap opens his mouth, intending to say, well. He’s not sure, actually. But there’s a warmth in his chest and cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol, that feels like the warm yellow glow of holiday lights draping comfortingly around his ribs when his eyes meet Ghost’s dark bourbon gaze.
He’s saved from his floundering by Price, who dumps a frankly offensively tangled string of said lights in his arms. “Plenty of time for gawking later, Sergeant. Get to work.” He uses his “Captain Voice”, but the effect is somewhat negated by the peppermint stick poking between his lips in place of the usual cigar.
Soap straightens and salutes just the same, smile lopsided and genuine. “Aye, Cap’n.” He says, laughs again when Price grips the candy between his teeth and two fingers like he really is smoking it.
With that, Soap rolls the sleeves of his sweater up and gets to work.
---
Once the lights and garlands have been de-tangled and they have all had their fair share of drink, once Price, in an impressive show of skill, has lassoed loops of lights around the topmost portions of the tree and the rest of them have wound the excess, Soap decides to forgo the ladder idea and instead just hang decorations where he can reach. Maybe make a game of it, toss ornaments (the plastic ones, that is) up to that top bit and see what sticks. Winner gets a prize.
Now, though, he’s on his tiptoes, trying to lightly hold a quivering tree branch for support and reaching up as high as he can to hang an ornament. When he steps back and sees there’s still a good two feet or so from the top, he huffs, pouts. “Ghost,” he calls without looking, tilting back and forth as if that will somehow change the height of the tree. “Come gimmie a han— Jesus!!” Ghost doesn’t even let him get the question out before Soap is being hefted up. Strong arms around his thighs and solid chest against his ass.
He doesn’t squeak — he doesn’t! And the deep blush wrapping his whole body like a present is from the drinks, of course. Certainly not the man nosing at his lower back.
“No, it’s Ghost.” The voice is muffled into the wool of Soap’s sweater, but Soap can hear the grin in it clearly.
“Piss off.” He reaches back, intending to thump Ghost on the back of the head, but startles when his fingers meet soft curls, lets his hand rest against them for a moment, instead. Ghost must have taken his mask off at some point while Soap was elbows deep in pine needles.
Soap suddenly wants to see him very badly.
But Garrick is already holding out a box of ornaments with a knowing look and Soap does stick his tongue out, now. Thinks about jumping down and giving Garrick an earful about minding his business. But Ghost is swaying gently beneath him, not because he’s having trouble holding Soap up, but because he’s nodding along to the Christmas tune someone has put on over the speakers. And with the boost he can now reach the upper branches of the tree.
So he decides to stay put, for now. Lets Ghost support his weight like it’s nothing. Plucks a few glittered balls from the box and arranges them within the branches. He gets all the glittering baubles hung, laughing, counterbalancing on instinct and the intrinsic knowledge of the man beneath him as Ghost sways dramatically with the crescendo of the song. Soap has just a moment to marvel at the strength of Ghost’s quads before the man gives him a shake – for no reason other than just to be a little shit, if the quiet chuckle pressed into the back of Soap’s hip is any indication.
“A’wright you big bastard, put me down.” Soap pats the top of Ghost's head.
Ghost shifts beneath him, but doesn’t let him down. Instead he adjusts his grip, tossing Soap lightly, as if he weighed nothing, in order to hold him up higher —
“Not so fast, Tav.” Garrick says quickly, at the same time Price calls out: “Hold up — one more thing.”
Price, who has traded his boonie for an over-long Santa hat, holds out a garishly flashy star, each of its tinsel lined points bent or dented in some way, and it doesn’t look like the small battery pack for the lights crammed inside its hollow center has worked for the better part of a decade.
“Classy.” Ghost mutters with amusement.
Price shrugs, “Beggars and choosing and all that.” He grins around the peppermint stick as Soap takes the star from his hands and shoves it on the top of the tree.
Leaning back to regard his work, Soap claps once, twice. “All done!” He declares, wiggling his hips for Ghost to set him back on the ground.
When his feet touch the ground he doesn’t let Ghost move away from him, though. As the man straightens, Soap loops an arm around his waist, tucking himself against Ghost’s side and accepting the glass Gaz hands him with a grin. When Ghost drapes a casual arm over his shoulders he sighs contentedly, admiring their hard work.
It's achingly domestic; the soft, warm lighting from the tree, the glittering of ornaments and tinsel, the solid body at his side, Garrick bobbing and weaving to try and avoid the large adhesive bow Price is trying to slap on him. That warmth that kindled in his chest earlier settles like logs in a hearth, comfortable and cozy.
Ghost ducks down to rest his brow on the top of Soap’s head. “Merry Christmas, Johnny.” He whispers, breath hot against the shell of Soap’s ear.
“Merry Christmas, Si.” Soap breaths back, settling against him.
At Price’s hearty laugh as he manages to smack the bow directly on Gaz’s forehead, Soap and Ghost raise their glasses in cheers.