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You blink the sweat out of your eyes, the cadence of thundering footfalls closing in on either side of you.
“Take the shot!”
The voice fades into the sea of shouting as you zero in on your target.
The goalie tenses when you line up your shot, the opposition moving to intercept as you wind back your leg.
An ephemeral hush falls over the pitch; all eyes are on the foot you swing forward.
You see the goalie mentally calculating the ball’s trajectory, strafing towards the corner of the goalpost - exactly where you want her.
You twist your hips at the last second and your inner sole connects with a sharp crack that reverberates up your calf.
The goalie’s eyes widen as she tracks the ball, helpless to block its path into the net.
There’s a collective exhale, and then raucous cheering fills your ears as your team rushes to surround you.
Price claps a hand on your shoulder, his beaming smile accentuating the roundness of his cheeks. “Done like a true professional.”
“Good fuckin’ shot!” Ghost jogs into the fold and you can easily parse out the pride in his expression despite the black surgical mask obscuring half his face.
“Bloody brilliant!” Gaz says as Soap plants a hand on your back with substantially more force than Price had done.
“Well done, lass!” He laughs.
The rest of your team each congratulates you in turn, and you give out high-fives and knuckle-bumps like candy on Halloween.
Everyone is sweaty, panting like dogs, and caked in dirt and grime up to the knees, but you feel as though you could take on the world bare-handed in this moment.
Price grins at the opposing players as they approach, good-natured smiles plastered on each of their faces. “Looks like drinks are on you lot, tonight.”
They concede gracefully, with promises to wipe the field with your team at the next game.
-
Hours later, the five of you sit around a table and clink shot glasses together, tapping them to the table and then knocking them back.
“No faces!” You say, scanning the suddenly comically stoic expressions of your teammates while struggling to school your own expression as the alcohol (generously supplied by the losers of today’s match) burns its way down your throat.
No one makes a face - truly a testament to the mettle of a SpecOps soldier.
You all dissolve into laughter that melts seamlessly into the cacophony of music and animated conversations already filling the officer’s lounge.
The space has been converted into a college student’s fantasy, with bottles lining the countertops and snacks overflowing from the tables.
“Y/N,” Gaz leans forward, crossing his forearms on the table and nodding towards the dartboard affixed to the wall, “Bet a shot you can’t beat me.”
“Oh, you’re so fuckin’ on.” The drinks settle warmly in your gut, a pleasant buzz humming through your veins.
With the confidence afforded by good alcohol and the victory wave you’re still surfing from earlier, you plant your hands on the table and heave yourself up.
Your vision tilts precariously, completely missing the way Ghost’s hands move to steady you, and the rest of your team chuckles amicably.
Gaz has an infuriatingly smug look on his face as he dumps your darts into your hand. “Ladies first.”
You reel back a dart and your rapid blinking does nothing to rectify the way the board seems to waver around the edges.
The dart sails through the air, lodging into the drywall.
Gaz covers his mouth with one hand, crossing the other over his chest. “You got it this time, mate.”
You level him with a withering glare and resolutely ignore the way he’s suppressing laughter as you abysmally fail every shot.
Gaz ends up defeating you utterly.
“Can’t let you have all the glory today.” He turns away from the stash of bottles and lifts a shot glass towards you. “Your prize, madam.”
“I let you win.” You snatch the glass from him as he huffs a quiet “Sure you did,” tipping it back in one motion and unable to prevent the way your face screws up at the sensation.
“Alright, I can’t watch this anymore,” Price approaches the two of you, placing a hand on your shoulder and steering you away. “Let’s try your hand at blackjack, hm?”
“It’s gonna be a cold day in hell when I beat you at any card game, Cap.” You let him lead you back to the table, sitting as Price shuffles a deck.
He grins at you from under the brim of his ever-present hat. “I won’t even make you take a shot when I win.”
He deals you two cards. “Aces are worth eleven. Your go.”
You study your cards with the resolve of a disgraced celebrity seeking vindication.
“Hit.” You draw another card and Price does the same.
“Stand.” Price draws another card when you elect not to.
Soap and Gaz chatter animatedly from beside you as Ghost observes the proceedings in amusement.
You and Price eye each other over your decks, and the game continues until you make a fateful mistake.
“Hit.” You draw a card. It’s an ace - your new total is a neat twenty-seven. “Fuck!”
Your opponent tosses his cards onto the table, throwing back his head and laughing deeply. It’s impossible to feign upset when your usually stolid Captain is so clearly entertained, and you chuckle lowly, shaking your head ruefully.
“You’ll win your dignity back next game, I’m sure.” Price says, taking a victorious sip of his beer.
“Alright,” Soap abruptly leans forward, “New challenge for our disparaged hero.” He plants his elbow on the table, holding his hand aloft and pinning you with a challenging stare.
“An arm wrestle?” You eye his tree trunk of a bicep apprehensively. You’re proud of your physical strength, certainly, but Soap has the physique of a Roman gladiator.
“Scared?” He raises an eyebrow, smirking mischievously as the rest of the team looks on in anticipation.
All reservations about getting your arm snapped like a toothpick are promptly thrown out the window. You clap your palm into his, stoutly ignoring the way it dwarfs yours.
Gaz places a hand over your clasped fists, “Ready,” He pulls back, “Begin!”
It’s like fighting against a freight train. You put up a good fight - Soap even graciously allows you to grip the edge of the table with your other hand, but the leverage isn’t enough to save you.
Wham!
Your hand is slammed into the wood and Soap leans back, crossing his arms behind his head, infuriatingly satisfied.
“That’s gotta be a new record, right?” You rub your hand, soon to be just as bruised as your ego. “That was at least twenty seconds.”
“Not even close, lass.” The rest of the team murmurs their agreement, and your gaze flicks between each of them with mock betrayal.
“Okay, fine,” You lean forward and Soap mimics your posture, already intrigued. “I challenge you to do one hundred pushups-“
He’s already standing, “Ach, I can do that in my sleep-“
“With me sitting on your back.”
He’s not deterred in the slightest. The rest of the team stands and circles for a better view as Soap assumes the position.
“All aboard, bonnie.”
If he accomplishes this after you challenged him with such bravado, you’ll never be able to show your face around base again. Your pride wouldn’t allow it.
Soap has generously lowered himself enough for you to clamber onto his back, and you fold your legs underneath you.
He’s at ten before you even know it. Your gaze flicks to Ghost’s, and he just shakes his head dejectedly. At least he’s somewhat sympathetic towards your impending humiliation.
Gaz is keeping count and Price crosses one arm over his chest, running his fingers over his mustaches with a mumbled “There’s no way.”
He’s at fifty now, and sounding blessedly drained.
“Ready to give up?” You goad, praying for an affirmative.
Soap presses on, “Not a fuckin’ chance.”
Gaz reaches seventy, sounding just as impressed as you feel. Soap’s tempo finally slows and you kindle the flicker of hope sparking in your chest.
“Seventy-four…”
His chest is on the ground, and he grunts as he fights the strain in his muscles.
“Seventy-five…”
Biceps shaking, Soap collapses onto the floor with a string of colorful curses.
You roll off of him and spring to your feet. “Hah, I win!”
The three others laugh with you as Soap hauls himself up.
“How was that a win?” He brushes his hands off. “You didnae do shite.”
“A loss for you is a victory for me.” You plant your hands on your hips and reflect his smugness right back at him.
Gaz chimes in, defending the merits of your triumph and Price echoes his agreement. A hand lands on your shoulder as Soap launches into a tirade about semantics.
You turn and give Ghost an inquiring look.
He jerks his head towards the staircase. “Wanna show you somethin’.”
You trail him up the stairs and he leads you to the roof access door on the second floor.
Ghost pauses, one hand on the push bar. He turns towards you slightly and you tilt your head, waiting for him to speak.
His eyes search your face for a moment, then he shakes his head softly and shoulders the door open.
A question rests on the tip of your tongue before you’re greeted by a brisk chill and the most beautiful night sky you’ve ever seen in your life.
Your jaw slackens, arms hanging limply at your sides as you take in the swirling tapestry of colors and an unfiltered view of the Milky Way.
Out here in the desert, the frigid nighttime temperatures are more than compensated by the complete lack of light pollution.
Movement in your periphery compels you to tear your gaze away and you watch as Ghost sits, then lays back with his arms folded under his head.
Wordlessly, you join him, your body heat sapping away as your back meets the freezing concrete.
You interlock your fingers over your stomach. From this position, the sky fills your entire field of view and the belt of stars stretches farther than you can see.
“Pretty…” You whisper in breathless amazement. That word does a terrible disservice to the image you’re now searing into the backs of your eyelids.
“Yeah,” The warmth of Ghost’s voice abates the chill settling into your bones. “Beautiful.”
He’s not looking at the sky.
“Ten, nine, eight,”
Oh, it’s already time. The others are downstairs, counting down the new year, but you’re perfectly happy to float in this little bubble you and Ghost have created.
“Seven, six, five,”
There’s a shuffle of fabric then Ghost is shifting closer to you. He radiates heat, and you maneuver towards him until your sides are pressed together from shoulder to thigh.
“Four, three,”
You lower a hand to your side, and Ghost weaves his fingers through yours instantly. Your head tilts to rest against a surprisingly comfortable shoulder and Ghost mirrors you, pressing his cheek into your hair.
“Two, one - Happy New Year!” Drunken cheering emanates from the lower floors and a questionable rendition of Auld Lang Syne drifts up the stairs.
“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind,”
A giddy giggle bubbles out of your lips at how readily you can identify Soap’s voice in the chorus. The song is Scottish in origin, but his slurring vocals would have Robert Burns rolling in his grave.
You scoot impossibly closer to Ghost and he squeezes your hand.
“Happy New Year, Y/N.” His thumb traces gentle patterns into your skin.
Thoroughly warmed by the drinks, the breathtaking view, and your present company, you feel more contented in this moment than you have in a very long time.
“Happy New Year, Simon.”