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Every Christmas, the lads from TF-141 wished for one thing only: for Price, wearing a Santa smile and handing out gifts, to announce that all the bad guys had taken the holidays off and that everyone could finally unclench. It happened frustratingly rarely, but this year, one might say they got lucky: instead of a ticket to some hot zone that didn’t sound appealing even in winter, Price handed them a ten-hour flight to Canada for an experience exchange with local special forces.
The news didn’t spark much excitement, though sitting it out on a base, even a foreign one, was obviously better than catching bullets and chasing terrorists. On the road, lads kept bringing up the upcoming event now and then, but Soap didn’t want to clog his head with it. The surest way not to be disappointed was to expect nothing. Leave your mind blank, like a white sheet of paper, and let life draw the first strokes itself, without worrying about what the final picture might look like.
The flight turned out to be more exhausting than they had imagined. In just the first few hours, Soap had already died of boredom during the third Guardians of the Galaxy, eaten two portions of pasta with chicken (Ghost had refused his), and almost knocked Ghost out of his zen with his endless chatter. At some point Simon finally cracked under the pressure of the nonsense pouring out of Soap’s mouth, turned to him, and said:
“Shut up, Soap.”
Soap froze — there was absolutely no need for Ghost to lean in that close just to say it. Yet his lips, hot even through the balaclava, brushed Soap’s ear for a brief second, as if he wanted to personally make sure the words landed exactly where they were meant to: straight in the brain. Though Soap could’ve sworn that certain other parts of him had reacted far more eagerly. Still, he shut up. That worked better than any words.
The rest of the flight passed in silence, and after endless hours, vast white fields began to flicker below, broken up by forests. Soap pressed his forehead to the window, scanning the sharp-tipped fir trees, and his eyes almost started to blur—there were so many of them. A dark patch spread confidently beneath the wing, swallowing kilometers of land, and the longer Soap stared at it, the wider his smile grew.
Edmonton, which had looked flat and gray from above, greeted them with snowflakes that laid a fairytale filter over everything, and the military base welcomed them with Christmas decorations. Not as flashy as the sea of multicolored lights flooding the city, but they were there nonetheless, and looking at them, Soap felt the grayness inside him slowly recede, giving way to a pleasant sense of anticipation. Of what exactly—he wasn’t sure yet, but it stirred impatiently inside him, like a hand reaching for the ribbon on a wrapped present.
“Looks like Santa finally got my letters,” he murmured, lingering on a Christmas tree—artificial, but carefully dressed in shiny ornaments.
“Someone’s been a good boy this year,” Roach chuckled, jabbing him in the ribs.
Ghost, walking a little behind them, snorted—and Soap caught his eye. The brown gaze gave nothing away, but Simon knew perfectly well who and what kind of boy had been. Soap had put in no small amount of effort to keep him satisfied, but he didn’t expect any gifts in return. Alive, well, and close—that was all Ghost had to offer him, and, to Soap’s own surprise, it was enough.
They quickly got acquainted with everyone on base, and everything unfolded exactly as it always did. Soap slipped into the new crowd instantly, while Ghost moved through it like a stone no water would flow around. Naturally, it didn’t take long for everyone to figure out who stood closest to the grim lieutenant, and for a while, Soap had to field some awkward questions.
“So that Christmas-stealing boogeyman—he’s your partner?” asked Grant, one of the most talkative Canadians, when they were in the mess hall.
Soap didn’t need to ask for clarification or even look up to know who he meant. The words earned a smirk from him—and at the same time, pricked unpleasantly. Grant meant no harm; he’d quickly learned that Soap was easy to joke with, he just didn’t know that Ghost wasn’t a joking matter. At least not with people outside the unit.
Instead of answering, Soap nodded and critically examined what sat on his tray.
“Looks like when the Brits settled this country, they didn’t forget to bring their cuisine with them,” he said, shoving cold, bland potatoes into his mouth.
“Let’s pretend that was strictly the English,” Grant bumped his shoulder with a fist.
He was Irish, Soap was Scottish. Somehow, that bonded them instantly. They found plenty to laugh about when it came to England—but Grant, of course, had no idea that Soap himself had long since surrendered to that country, willingly.
“So what’s it like, being with him?” Grant circled back, and Soap nearly choked.
It took him a few seconds to realize what exactly Grant was asking. To everyone else, he and Ghost were just a well-coordinated duo, partners. Everything else was supposed to stay classified, top secret—the way it had for a long time, even from their own team.
“He’s, uh…”
Soap glanced over at Ghost, who was fighting with the coffee machine. The Canadians drank coffee by the gallon, and the famous Tim Hortons had even made its way onto a closed military base. Simon, of course, had decided to be difficult here too and was trying to make the poor machine dispense tea—a feature it technically had, except the button jammed mercilessly.
Soap noticed people at nearby tables sneaking looks at Ghost, but that wasn’t surprising. His black figure seemed to absorb all the darkness lurking in the corners of the base, making the decorations around him sparkle even brighter. In all that festive cheer, he stood out even more somehow—like a burned-out bulb on a string of lights.
“The best,” Soap said indistinctly.
A known side effect of Ghost’s presence: it robbed some people of speech, and others of the ability to think. But Grant didn’t go searching for hidden meaning in Soap’s words.
“Yeah, he’s good,” he agreed with a wide grin—as if the memory of Lieutenant Riley knocking the wind out of him on the mats yesterday was something fond.
Soap’s instincts hadn’t failed him—the trip to Canada really had turned into a lucky break for TF-141. Practically a vacation, the kind they usually couldn’t even dream of. The experience exchange boiled down to joint shooting drills and clearing training buildings, but for them, it was familiar, not particularly grueling routine. The Canadians turned out to be not only professional soldiers, but open, friendly people, so common ground was found quickly. Evenings brought sparring matches, which surprisingly bred not hostility, but cheerful competitiveness, and usually ended with everyone hanging out over board games.
Most often, it was Coup, a game built on bluffing—and that was where things really heated up, sometimes even more fiercely than during training.
“‘Captain,’” Soap announced, grinning smugly at Roach. “Fork over two coins.”
Sanderson narrowed his eyes, scanning him with his gaze.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Prove it.”
Soap smirked and showed him the card. Roach rolled his eyes and tossed him two coins. The money was fake, but he got worked up like he’d lost real cash.
“Shove that ‘Captain’ up your—” Roach cut himself off just in time, darting a look around as if afraid Price might hear. “You’re going to leave me without pants soon.”
“Like I’d want you,” Soap snorted, giving him a dismissive once-over—and Roach flipped him off, catching the comparison.
The lads from TF-141 exchanged amused looks, while the Canadians smiled politely. Such moments between members of the same unit were things that, unlike tactics and combat methods, simply couldn’t be shared with somebody else.
“Shame Ghost doesn’t play,” Grant said, eyes still on his cards.
Soap just huffed. Everyone had learned Lieutenant Riley’s callsign almost on day one. He never tried to be the life of the party, but he earned the respect of everyone on base nearly instantly—not with words, but with action. During evening hangouts, he stayed on the sidelines, but he shone during training—and in those moments, Soap wasn’t the only one watching. It was simply beautiful: the precision of his shots, the way he moved like a swift black shadow, the way he slammed yet another opponent onto the mats.
“What, wanna see if he’s as good at lying as he is at everything else?” another Canadian, Fox, raised a brow.
Soap smirked. He himself didn’t know whether Ghost could lie professionally—but when it came to denying his feelings, he’d definitely reached mastery.
“I bet he’d be great at poker,” Grant continued. “With that mask and all. You know.”
He even gestured at his own face for emphasis.
“That’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Roach laughed, shooting him a glance. “We talked him into playing once.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Gaz confirmed. “Unforgettable moment.”
“When was that?” Soap drawled skeptically. “I don’t remember.”
“You were on sick leave then. Took a bullet, remember? Mexico. We were joking that a shot in the ass got you, but the one running around like he’d been hit was…”
Soap shot him a warning look, and Roach wisely shut up.
“Anyway,” he continued, sweeping his gaze over Grant and Fox, who were waiting for the rest of the story, then settling back on Soap. “I said any idiot could play in a mask. He was passing by and heard me.”
“And?” Soap asked, genuinely intrigued.
“He sat down at the table, took the mask off. And wiped the floor with us.”
“Sounds like total bullshit,” Soap said, for some reason irritated.
“It’s true,” Gaz confirmed, and flicking one of his cards face-down, announced, “‘Assassin.’”
“I don’t believe it,” Soap shook his head—and muttered a quiet curse when Gaz showed the card, proving he wasn’t lying.
Soap lost, and that finally soured his mood completely. He knew the game wasn’t to blame. Neither were the guys, who carried on without him, trading new stories and laughing. Their company was fun, but Soap found himself looking around more and more often, trying to spot Ghost, who was nowhere to be seen. Probably holed up in his room—a place Soap, unfortunately, didn’t have access to. On a Canadian base, it wasn’t wise to draw unnecessary attention.
They weren’t heading home until January, but for several weeks now, rumors had been circulating that they’d get a few days off for Christmas, and Soap was waiting for them like never before in his life. Planning ahead was bad luck—according to Ghost, not Soap, so he got started almost immediately. The idea came to him the moment he heard the word Canada, and seeing the sheer number of forests from the plane only cemented his resolve: he was going to drag Ghost out hunting.
Ghost had once mentioned he used to do it and wouldn’t mind trying again, and now that they were here, it felt like all the stars had aligned. Reason number one — get Ghost off a base that had clearly gotten on his last nerve. Reason number two — spend time together doing something he’d genuinely enjoy. Reason number three — be alone with him, far from prying eyes. Soap could’ve gone on forever, and the more he thought about it, the more brilliant his idea seemed.
So by the time Price, wearing a panama hat instead of a red one and sporting a mustache in place of a white beard, announced that the base would be off duty for a few days, Soap already had everything lined up. All that remained was figuring out how to present it to Ghost the right way.
Soap ran into him in the corridor — almost at the same time as some Canadian literally crashed into the lieutenant’s powerful frame.
“Sorry, buddy,” the guy said with a wide grin, giving Ghost a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Didn’t see you there.”
Soap managed to hold back a laugh, but he couldn’t do anything about the smile—and judging by Ghost’s icy look, he found it wildly inappropriate.
“If one more person apologizes to me…” Ghost started, glaring ominously at the retreating Canadian’s back.
“That’s called being polite, Simon. A concept unfamiliar to you.”
“Don’t call me that here,” Ghost hissed immediately, scanning the corridor as if someone might be listening.
“As you wish…” The playful sweetheart he swallowed at the last second stuck in his throat, and Soap neatly disguised it as a cough.
He could provoke Ghost as much as he wanted—Ghost wouldn’t do anything to him (not with witnesses around, at least). But they weren’t on their own base, and words had to be chosen more carefully, which didn’t come easily to Soap.
“So, heard we’re getting time off?” he said instead, matching Ghost’s brisk pace as he kept moving—wherever it was he was headed.
He almost bit his tongue. What an idiot. Of course he’d heard, they’d all been at the briefing together.
“And?” Ghost prompted.
“I get the feeling you’re about five minutes away from snapping,” Soap lowered his voice conspiratorially, “so I’m planning to abduct you from the base. Neutralize you somewhere secluded. Willingly be the sole victim, if it saves the rest of us.”
“How touching,” Ghost said flatly—but Soap knew he was interested.
In fact, he was pretty sure Simon had been waiting for this.
“But leave starts tomorrow,” Ghost reminded him, pretending he had no idea that Soap had already bent over backwards to gather intel and prepare everything.
Truth be told, Soap hated planning—ever, in any form. But with Ghost, he’d had to learn, otherwise all of Soap’s carefully thought-out fun would get smothered by that distinctly English, dry grumbling.
“I’ve got everything ready,” Soap said, barely holding back a smug smile.
He really had taken care of a lot, spent a solid amount of time organizing things—and he felt fully entitled to be proud of himself.
“Permission?” Ghost narrowed his eyes.
“Got it.”
“Weapons? Gear?”
“Covered.”
“Terrain maps?”
“I hired a guide who’ll handle all of that for us,” Soap said, deciding that should answer any remaining questions. “We’ll meet him on site. He’ll brief us and issue everything we need.”
“Sounds decent.”
“Sounds wonderful. That’s what you meant to say.”
“We’ll see,” Ghost replied evasively, but still lingered on him with his gaze — and it seemed to Soap that there was a hint of warmth flickering in those dark eyes.
Praising things in advance was bad luck too, of course, but Soap was perfectly happy with that answer. It meant that tomorrow morning they’d get into a car, leave the base—and for the first time in their lives, spend Christmas alone. Not on a mission, not with the others, just the two of them. So Soap kept smiling, happily catching the curious looks from passersby who genuinely couldn’t understand why he was practically glowing next to that gloom-radiating figure.
In the morning, they hopped into the generously assigned pickup and set off after saying their goodbyes. Well, more precisely, only Soap said his, while Ghost waited for him in the truck. Lieutenant Riley, who had decided long ago that socialization was not a critical survival skill, stubbornly didn’t give a fuck about it.
“Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage,” Gaz smirked, shaking Soap’s hand. “We’ll figure out how to get you out.”
“This was actually my idea,” Soap shot back, baring his teeth in a grin. “Saving Christmas for you, and some well-earned solitude for Ghost. He’s been a saint lately.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Gaz started—then immediately raised his hands and laughed. “Nope. Don’t want to know.”
“I’ll send you pictures.”
“Keep the shock content to yourself.”
“Alright, I should go,” Soap said, almost physically aware of Ghost somewhere behind him, tapping his fingers impatiently. “See you in three days.”
“Take care, Soap,” Gaz stopped smiling, and for a second Soap almost believed in his seriousness, until the crinkles around his eyes gave him away. “Watch out for wild animals out there. Don’t stick random things in their mouths—they’ll bite.”
Soap laughed all the way back to the truck, though some of his cheer faded when he spotted Ghost in the driver’s seat. He even reached for the door, about to open it and make him switch, but imagined the inevitable staring contest and decided that was a losing battle.
“I was actually planning to drive,” he said, dropping into the passenger seat beside Ghost and shooting him an annoyed look. “I organized this trip. That makes me the chauffeur.”
“Seatbelt,” Ghost said instead of answering, starting the engine.
Soap didn’t move.
The stubborn mule inside him chose that exact moment to rear up, and surprised by his own reaction, Soap suddenly realized that this was… important to him. He’d put a lot of effort into making this trip happen, and now Ghost had simply taken over, making it clear who was in charge. Indignation rose inside him—Soap would’ve liked to brush it off, but it flared instantly and violently, like a forest fire.
Apparently, Ghost sensed that brushing him aside wouldn’t work this time.
“Johnny,” he said—and even turned to look at him properly. Soap froze, like a rabbit before a snake, struck dumb either by the name or by the direct eye contact. “Want me to remind you what happened the last time you were behind the wheel?”
Soap blinked. Of course he remembered—it had been a mission in Afghanistan, hot in every sense of the word. But back then, his quick reflexes and slightly reckless driving style had saved their lives.
“I was dodging a mine, and you know it!” Soap protested loudly, realizing exactly what Ghost was implying. “I’d have loved to follow traffic regulations—right up until we blew up!”
“Johnny,” Ghost repeated patiently, in the same calm, cool tone, and unexpectedly placed his hand on Soap’s knee, giving it a light squeeze. “Buckle up, relax — and enjoy the ride.”
There was something about that order—about the grip of his fingers, squeezing and then stroking, that cut straight through him. Warmth spread under Ghost’s palm, and the rebellion raging inside Soap died down just as suddenly as it had flared. Now, looking at Simon’s face hidden behind the mask, all Soap could think about were his lips, hot and dry, and how badly he wanted to kiss them.
“Understood, Sergeant?” Ghost’s smirk wasn’t visible, but it rang clearly in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Soap replied, the challenge gone from his tone, and fastened his seatbelt.
Ghost drilled him with his gaze for another second, as if making sure the message had landed, then returned his hand to the wheel, pressed the gas, and the truck rolled forward.
The drive to the hunting lodge, where they were meant to meet the guide, took only a few hours. The wide, even highway was snow-covered, but since they mostly had to stick to a single lane, it didn’t pose much of a problem. The city fell away behind them, quickly giving way to open fields, which in turn dissolved into forests. Rocky mountains loomed ahead, gradually drawing closer, spreading out on either side of the road and capturing the eye. Heavy clouds crept across the sky, snagging on the peaks and wrapping them in mist. Snow started falling again, and the wipers Ghost had switched on lazily swept it from the windshield.
The cabin looked exactly like it had in the pictures online—a small wooden structure at the edge of the forest, somehow fitting perfectly into the wild landscape around it. A generator rumbled, bluish smoke poured from the chimney. A massive Toyota was parked nearby, and as they pulled closer, a man climbed out.
“That him?” Ghost asked, cutting the engine and unfastening his seatbelt.
Soap nodded, got out, and headed over to meet the guide without waiting for him.
“Soap,” he said, offering his hand first.
“Jake,” the man replied, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”
He looked like an ordinary middle-aged guy—plain clothes, unremarkable face, but his sharp, attentive gaze, catching every detail, immediately gave away an experienced hunter. A silence settled while Ghost and Jake sized each other up with such thoroughness like they were trying to remember whether they’d met before.
Soap cleared his throat and glanced uncertainly at Ghost—was he really going to ignore basic courtesy? But then Simon extended his hand and said:
“Ghost.”
“Excellent,” Jake replied dryly, clasping his hand—and the tension thickening the air vanished.
Soap, who had been awkwardly smiling the whole time, shifting his gaze between Jake and Ghost, could only guess what kind of wordless exchange had just taken place.
“Come on, I’ll show you the cabin,” Jake said, stepping onto the porch. “I’ll issue the weapons and explain everything you need to know.”
Inside, it was warm and smelled of firewood crackling in the stove against the wall. The cabin was small, but it compactly held everything they needed: a table, a couple of chairs, a bunk bed—Soap knew he’d be getting several priceless comments from Ghost about that later, but otherwise, it was perfect. There was even a Christmas tree, which Soap didn’t notice at first because it was tucked into a corner. Artificial, small, with a string of lights wrapped around it, it was the final touch that made Soap decide—he liked it here.
He cast a casual glance at Ghost and smirked. Ghost was pacing the cabin carefully, peering into every corner like an animal scenting a new, unfamiliar territory. The stove, in particular, caught his attention.
“You can cook here,” he said quietly.
“Of course,” Jake replied at once, and for the first time, a faint smile touched his lips—as if Ghost’s comment amused him. “You can put a pan on the cast iron top. You’ll find dishes, knives, and spices here.”
Ghost walked over to the cupboard and opened it, verifying everything personally. Soap watched him with no small amount of curiosity. Not long ago, he’d begun to suspect Simon had picked up a new hobby—but so far, it was just a hunch.
While they were looking around, Jake brought in two rifles and laid out the rest of the gear on the table, gesturing for them to come closer.
“Military?” he asked, checking their papers. “Well, that means you can shoot. Safety is simple too—keep your weapon unloaded until you’re ready to fire, never point the barrel at each other, and make sure it’s unloaded and the rounds are put away at night. This is a Browning X Bolt,” Jake handed one of the rifles to Ghost. “Very light and accurate. Best choice for deer hunting.”
Ghost carefully examined the rifle, compact and neat-looking, and seemed pleased. Jake explained where to aim and how to behave after taking a shot. There were plenty of hunting nuances, but all of them seemed logical and easy to remember. And all the reading Soap had done online wasn’t wasted—those scattered pieces of information were slowly starting to connect in his mind, sometimes matching, sometimes not, but some of it already felt familiar and understandable.
“Your target is the white-tailed deer,” Jake said, showing them several photos for reference. “You may only hunt that one. Deer are most active at dawn and dusk, but shooting after sunset is forbidden. I’ll give you a radio. You must check in in the evening and report back when you return.”
Finally, Jake laid out a map on the table and pointed out the areas where deer usually gather. After listening, Ghost began asking additional questions, and Soap peeked at him from the side, happy to see him engaged. So far, everything was going according to plan.
“There are also canned food and rations in the cupboard,” Jake added with a grin before leaving. “In case the hunt doesn’t go well.”
His gaze swept over Soap and lingered on Ghost, as if he had already decided who was in charge. And in fact, that was true—Simon had far more hunting experience, but Soap still frowned.
“A weird way to spend Christmas,” Jake remarked casually, standing in the doorway.
“We’re not really celebrating,” Ghost replied.
Jake raised an eyebrow, silently saying, now that’s really weird, and stepped out.
The door clicked shut, leaving them alone. Soap turned around, but Ghost had already moved away, busy unloading his pack onto the bottom bunk.
“I was supposed to be on the bottom,” Soap said, moving closer.
Ghost didn’t respond to his wordplay—but he also didn’t rush to criticize the bunk bed, so Soap decided not to push it.
“So, what now?” he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
He’d done his part—snatched Ghost away from the noisy crowd and brought him here. But he was the one leading the hunt, so Soap was ready to follow instructions.
“There’s still plenty of daylight,” Ghost said, not looking at him. “Makes sense to check the surroundings, look for tracks, and if we find a herd, observe their movements during the day—where they go.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Soap said with a crooked smile. “Give me a few minutes to sort my things, then we’ll go.”
He turned away so Ghost—this damn calculating machine—wouldn’t have a chance to read his face. Soap really wanted to hear Ghost’s verdict on the cabin, but being with Simon had forced him to unlock entirely new levels of patience. Compared to the depths of Ghost’s mind, explosives suddenly seemed far easier to figure out. Still, Soap kept studying it, believing he’d someday crack that strange mechanism.
Eventually, he realized the best approach was not to touch anything unnecessary—and Soap had mastered this skill. Yet patience sometimes faltered.
He bent to pick up his pack from the floor, and as he turned, nearly collided with Ghost, who had risen from the bunk and was suddenly almost pressing against him. Ghost’s hands landed on Soap’s hips, pulling him close, and the last inches between them disappeared, replaced by unexpected intimacy. Ghost looked down at him. Warmth instantly flooded Soap from those brown eyes, and he sank into it like in a thick syrup. His hands traced Ghost’s back—he could swear in such moments his body acted without consulting his brain—and slid down to his buttocks.
“Looks like you’ve got everything handled,” Ghost murmured, clearly not referring to his organizational skills, which Soap had been eager to hear about.
He didn’t care already.
“How do you like the cabin?” he asked hoarsely.
“You did a great job,” Ghost replied, running a finger along his cheek. “Well done, Johnny.”
He lifted a hand and tugged at the edge of the mask—not just adjusting it, but pulling it off entirely, revealing his pale, scarred face. Today, he had no standard black paint, and the skin under his eyes looked delicate, almost translucent. Soap’s heart skipped a furious beat and held a dramatic pause before the next thump. He had long suspected that Ghost wore the mask partly for moments like this—to stir him each time it came off.
A hand rested on the back of his head, and Ghost leaned in, drawing him close. His kisses always felt like an assault—impulsive collisions of lips and bodies, fingers gripping tighter than necessary, breath faltering. Soap could only yield, let his tongue meet Ghost’s, and softly moan, responding with the friction of his own body.
Ghost’s fingers slid under his shirt, the icy touch sending shivers through Soap, and he arched away, trying to escape.
“What are you doing?” he exhaled, feeling heat immediately follow the cold—a reflex of his body to Ghost’s closeness.
“Giving you a hint about tonight’s plans,” Ghost replied calmly. “Figured you’d appreciate the motivation.”
“Motivation’s getting harder,” Soap smirked into his lips and pulled back. “So if you don’t want me tossing you onto the bed right now, you better move that ass.”
Ghost withdrew his hands, and Soap immediately regretted his command. He would much rather have stayed in the cabin and enjoyed the long-awaited privacy. But they still had the entire evening—and a whole night. So Soap gathered his patience and reached for his pack again.
“Speaking of the bed…” Ghost began, watching him settle on the bunk and repack his things.
“Not a word,” Soap cut him off, shooting him a look—and for once, Ghost fell silent.
When they stepped outside, the snow had stopped. Route choice was entirely Ghost’s decision, so he led, and Soap followed. Both wore ponchos over their hunting gear. The flaps of Ghost’s cloak fluttered as he moved, conjuring ghostly images in Soap’s mind—but he didn’t voice them, especially since Ghost was still maskless—trying to blend into the snow, an idea Soap found absolutely wonderful.
Following him through the forest, he couldn’t decide what enchanted him more—the stunning landscape or Simon’s face, flushed from the cold, with occasional white strands escaping from under his hat.
The promised minus twenty degrees wasn’t yet felt. The cold bit their cheeks but didn’t penetrate his clothes. They moved uphill constantly at first, so talking was minimal. By the time they reached the top, the dense gray veil above cracked, and the sky burst with dazzling blue.
Ghost stopped, checking the map, and Soap took the chance to look around. They had climbed fairly high, offering a breathtaking view of the mountains ahead. Sunlight broke through the clouds, casting sharp shadows and highlighting contours. The forest painted dark patterns along the slopes, solid in some places, broken by avalanches in others, while snowy peaks vanished into clouds.
Soap inhaled the crisp, cold air deeply. It was quiet—not the tense kind, but light and free. Calm seeped in with the pure air, pushing out any stray thoughts. He watched Ghost’s back, moving ahead—Simon wasn’t admiring the view, his eyes were focused on the ground, tracking footprints. That was his pleasure—the deliberate pursuit, the process, the details. Ghost tracked the prey, and Soap watched with far more interest than participating.
Once the forest inspection was done, Ghost motioned him to continue, and they moved along the trail again. They weren’t the only ones to walk it—right down the center ran a neat line of small tracks.
“Coyote,” Soap concluded, and Ghost looked at him, surprised by his knowledge. “See how elegantly it passed? Unlike dogs, they step in a single line. Conserves energy.”
“Studied Wikipedia?”
“More like hunting forums. Hopefully, this fanged guy isn’t after the same prey.”
“Unlikely. The deer’s too big for him.”
“By the way, what happens when we shoot it? I mean, we have to… process it somehow.”
Ghost stopped, turned toward him, and Soap, following behind on the narrow path, nearly ran into him.
“You’ll see if you stop talking and let me concentrate,” he said calmly, without irritation—but one look into his eyes told Soap to shut up.
Simon could be very persuasive, especially when occupied. Soap didn’t try to distract him again, switching to silent observation. And, as always, there was plenty to watch. Soap tried to engage in the process, to notice something besides Ghost skillfully moving through the snow, but watching him track the signs proved far more interesting than doing it himself. He paused periodically, observing the shimmering white around, listening to the silence of the forest—which communicated with him in some unknown language, as they continued, leaving Soap guessing what logic guided the path.
Soap was surprised when, after a full day in the forest, they found neither deer nor tracks. The sun slid lower, and the blinding white landscape began to fade, colors draining into early blue-gray dusk.
“We should head back,” Ghost finally said what had occurred to Soap. “We won’t track them today.”
Soap glanced at him—Simon didn’t look displeased or disappointed. Still, he waited ten minutes before voicing a thought while they retraced their steps.
“Maybe there aren’t any deer here?”
“There are, just hiding. Maybe your chatter scared them off.”
“What? I stayed quiet the whole time!”
Soap even caught up to him, glaring, and saw a smile. It lifted the corners of Simon’s mouth briefly before vanishing, but that was enough for Soap to smile back unconsciously.
The cabin was much colder when they returned. Not like outside, but still—they didn’t rush to shed their jackets. Ghost immediately set about lighting the stove; without it, there’d be no warmth and no hot food. Soap hovered uselessly for a bit, then gave up and dropped onto the lower bunk. For the first time all day, he felt how exhausted he was. The cold had drained him dry, and the moment his body got a break, it went slack.
Soap watched Ghost work—how he fed torn paper into the stove, patiently coaxed the first shy flame with twigs. The room filled with a thick, sweet scent of burning pine. The first wave of warmth brushed over his skin, raising pleasant goosebumps. Once the fire was steady, Ghost slid a large dry log into the stove. The flames crackled, greedily consuming the new fuel, growing hotter.
The cast-iron surface heated quickly, and Soap, taking over at the stove, started cooking. He boiled water, reheated packets of pasta and meat pie, plated everything on dishes he found in the cupboard. Simon had already seated himself at the table, watching him bustle about, probably considering half the effort unnecessary, but Soap stubbornly tried to turn field rations into a proper dinner.
“Better than eating straight from the pack,” he explained, finally sitting on a stool.
Ghost just shrugged and dug into his pasta. The food was surprisingly good—filling, warming, settling in the stomach like a pleasant weight. After dinner they lingered at the table, sipping tea from the thermos and eating cookies. Well—Soap ate the cookies. Ghost, as usual, ignored sweets.
“They even bake with maple syrup,” Soap mumbled, juggling chewing and talking. “Tasty, by the way. Shame you refuse. Here, try.”
Ghost merely shook his head.
After dinner, he became thoughtful. Soap caught his gaze repeatedly—not unusual, but noticeable. Simon never admitted enjoying looking at him, yet his eyes betrayed him—the dark color brightened and warmed like amber, lit by flickers of fire.
“Let’s turn off the damn generator,” Soap suggested, noticing the hum outside was disrupting the atmosphere. “We won’t need electricity—the fire’s enough.”
Ghost nodded in agreement. When Soap went back inside, he found the cabin had grown even cozier. Darkness pressed against the forest outside, clinging to the windows, trying to seep indoors—but the stove drove it back with its warm glow. Reflections danced across the walls and floor; trembling light reached timidly toward the shadows lurking in the corners, sometimes pushing them away, sometimes retreating again.
Soap’s gaze slid over the string lights on the Christmas tree, switched on, and then magnetized to the darkest point in the room: Ghost, already stripped down to thermal underwear. Black, of course—hugging every line of his body, every muscle, like a second skin. In the half-light Soap couldn’t see it in full detail, but his imagination needed no help. It flared inside him like fire, casting its own game of shadows and flickers through his chest.
“Thought you weren’t a fan of the lights,” Soap remarked, moving closer and stopping in front of Ghost, who sat on the bottom bunk.
Ghost lifted his gaze—a rare moment when he had to look up from below—and the sight made Soap want to throw himself onto him without ceremony and press him down. Simon tilted his chin higher and smirked, drilling him with those dark, almost black eyes in the dim light, as if he knew exactly what Soap was thinking.
“Wasn’t,” he replied. “I don’t care either way.”
“And what do you care about?” Soap asked softly, his voice dropping into a whisper without him realizing it.
Ghost kept staring, his lips spread into a smile—predatory, teasing, making Soap want to wipe it away, to turn that laugh into a moan. Soap tugged off his sweater, feeling Ghost’s eyes immediately latch onto the exposed skin of his stomach, and slowly pulled off his jeans, leaving only the thermal underwear. He could have discarded it too, but he wanted Simon to undress him.
He stepped forward and immediately found himself in a ring of arms that lifted him off the floor and drew him close. Ghost leaned back, and Soap ended up straddling his thighs. They kissed greedily, teeth nearly colliding, too starved for each other to bother with gentleness. Ghost’s tongue pushed insistently into his mouth, hands sliding under his sweater, fingers skimming, scratching, gripping. Soap arched into him, matching his intensity, pressing his pelvis against him through the thin fabric, feeling the beginning of hardness.
During one of the movements, he pressed harder, tracing a circle with his hips. Ghost growled low, fingers tangled in his hair, tilting Soap’s head back, and he offered his neck willingly to the kiss. Simon’s lips traveled over his skin, alternating between mouth and nose as if searching for the perfect spot to bite, but ultimately he did what always drove Soap wild—bit gently on his earlobe and tugged slightly.
“Wait… oh…” Soap protested, pressing his palms to Ghost’s chest, trying to pull away, though every part of him was screaming against it. “Don’t rush.”
“What’s wrong?” Ghost’s voice was rough, as always when aroused.
“Mmm… I want to try something. Been thinking about it since we came in.”
Ghost looked at him, confused, but loosened his grip, and Soap quickly slid off. He grabbed the large, warm blanket from the top bunk he had noticed earlier and spread it on the floor in front of the stove.
“What are you doing? Planning to burn the place down?”
“Don’t need that,” Soap smirked, tugging the blanket toward him, creating a few extra inches between himself and the fire. “So, what are you waiting for? Come here.”
Soap sat on the floor, beckoning, but Ghost didn’t move. Standard reaction—introduce something new, and he froze like stone. Soap could almost feel the battle raging inside Simon—he didn’t like leaving his comfort zone, but staying there without Soap was no better. The days when Ghost could dismiss him and quietly retreat into his shell were long gone—now he traded solitude for the company of his relentless sergeant more willingly.
Apparently, this idea seemed not so foolish to him, because a few seconds later he finally stood, approached, and settled on the blanket beside him.
“There is a bed,” Ghost muttered—of course. He couldn’t just give in silently.
Soap just smiled, sliding closer and tracing the line of his collarbones with his fingers.
“Afraid your back will get sore?” He tilted his head, smirking and continuing to draw lazy patterns across his chest.
“Afraid you’ll get bruises on your knees and have to answer questions.”
“That’s more your risk than mine,” Soap pressed his palm against his chest, trying to tilt him onto his back again, but Simon didn’t budge an inch.
“So what, this time I have to defeat you in a fight to get you on your back?” Soap asked.
There was only a hint of teasing—both liked sparring, and sometimes even their bed games became contests over who’d end up on top. With Ghost, anything was possible.
“Sex is battle, love is war,” Simon replied, tensing as Soap tried again to press on him.
He didn’t even realize how he ended up on his back—at some point, Ghost simply halted his movement with a clever grip, softened the impact with a palm under his shoulder blades, and immediately leaned on top, pinning him to the floor with his full weight.
“What a lovely worldview.”
Soap shifted, but Ghost seized his wrists, fixing him completely.
“That’s from a song,” Simon murmured, rubbing against him.
Soap tensed, surrendering, moving into him.
“I didn’t know you liked music.”
“You played it in the car once.”
Ghost released his hold and immediately slid his hands under Soap’s sweater, exposing his stomach, moving lower, pressing his lips against him.
“Remarkable memory, Lieutenant,” Soap breathed, feeling him against his pelvis. “Sometimes it scares me. Do something wrong, and you’ll never forget it.”
Ghost looked at him—the look nobody else knew, only Soap. Promising pleasure, not punishment. Warmth, not cold. He pressed again, lips over fabric, and Soap instinctively pushed hips forward, anticipating skin-on-skin contact. But Ghost rose again, following the trail of hair back to his chest, planting a burning kiss along his ribs.
“It works with good things too,” he said, covering his nipple with hot lips.
He traced with his tongue, nipped, sending electric impulses through Soap’s body. He gasped, arching, weaving his fingers into Ghost’s hair. Mouth replaced by fingers, more insistent, impatient. Ghost hovered over him, drinking in every reaction, every subtle muscle twitch, every escaping moan.
The hand stroking him froze. Fingers spread, resting over his pounding heart, as if trying to hold it. Soap reached for Ghost’s cheek. He had long stopped hiding his face, but Soap still touched gently, studying, memorizing each detail—the lips that smiled only for him, the scars that held stories only he knew, the eyes reflecting him. They rarely had such private moments, and Soap intended to savor every second.
“Well then… remember this,” he said, pulling Ghost toward him by the nape, kissing him deeply.
They spent the night on the floor by the fire, and when Soap opened his eyes in near-darkness the next morning, he realized he was freezing. The edge of the blanket covered him, but beside him was empty—the heat of Simon’s body he had pressed into even after they’d calmed and fallen asleep was gone. Soap sat up, searching for Ghost—and felt a strange relief when he spotted him nearby, in a circle of light cast by a flashlight. Looks like he’d been awake for a while, already packing their gear for the hunt.
“Good morning,” Soap said, rubbing his arms against the cold. “Why so early?”
“We need to head out at dawn. That’s when the chances are better.”
Soap sighed quietly. Of course, he knew what awaited them—that was why they had come. But he would much rather have thrown all the plans aside and stayed inside. Part of him had hoped Ghost would wake up, softened by warmth and closeness, and decide to stay. But the day, already beginning differently than he had imagined, hinted that he needed to temper his expectations.
He scolded himself for selfishness. After all, he wanted a proper break for Simon—and if the best way for him to spend it was wandering the snowy forest in search of prey, so be it.
He got up, dressed, and without waiting for instructions, stoked the fire again. He might not know much about hunting, but he knew a thermos of hot tea would be essential. Breakfast was also necessary, or they wouldn’t survive hours of trekking through the frost.
As yesterday, he prepared the meal while Ghost packed their rucksacks. When ready, he joined Soap at the table, and they quickly devoured the same cheesy pasta, fueling both body and warmth. They drank tea from army mugs, and Ghost declared five minutes to readiness.
“You know today’s a special day?” Soap asked, stepping out behind him and shivering from the first bite of frost.
“I’ve already told you—planning in advance is a bad…”
“I’m not talking about the deer, damn it,” Soap jabbed him in the forearm, cursing as he tripped over a rock hidden under the snow. “It’s the first time we’re celebrating Christmas alone together.”
“Celebrating?”
Soap opened his mouth, then shut it—he couldn’t think of a response. Ghost was right—what they were doing hardly resembled celebration. But Soap was determined to make the most of this break, and if enjoying time by the fire with Simon meant running through the forest first, he was ready.
For a while he even kept quiet, following Ghost — who, for some reason, had decided to walk ahead instead of shoulder to shoulder, even though they both remembered the route to the first point perfectly well. But Soap didn’t last long.
“Beautiful out here, isn’t it?” he said, catching up to Ghost and pointedly ignoring the warning look thrown his way. “You know, nature’s actually the reason I always wanted to visit Canada. I was watching one travel blogger in my downtime…”
“Not enough travel for you?” Ghost snorted, though Soap caught the hint of laughter in the sound.
“I’m just curious. Anyway — he was talking about traveling across Australia. Bought himself a trailer dirt cheap and drove all over the country. Slept right in it, by the ocean. Saved a fortune on motels. Sounds amazing.”
“Right up until a spider crawls into your boots. Australia’s full of venomous carp.”
“You’re the last person who should doubt my fear tolerance.”
Ghost glanced at him, exhaled — and Soap fell silent at once, understanding without a single word. It was time to focus on the hunt. If it went well, Simon would be in a good mood—and that was the whole point. So Soap, warmed up from walking and newly alert, decided conversation could wait until evening.
The darkness, which had barely dulled the shimmer of white snow, dissolved quickly with the first hints of sunlight. The sun itself hid somewhere behind the trees, but the sky lightened, filling with blue. Frosty, drowsy silence lay all around, broken only by the soft creak of snow beneath their boots.
This time they were luckier. After wandering through the forest for a while, they found a narrow path beaten down by hooves. It led them to a small clearing where a herd had been grazing not long ago. There were plenty of signs: oval hoofprints shaped like a “V,” just like the photos Soap had seen on forums; small patches of dug-up earth near the tree trunks; gnawed shrub branches.
The trail continued deeper into the forest, but before moving on they exchanged looks. Ghost raised a finger to his lips, signaling Soap to keep quiet, and Soap nodded. He didn’t need further explanation to know how things would go now. He pictured it so vividly it was as if he’d already taken part in hunts like this many times before — a no small amount of information picked up online coming back to him now. It began to play in his head like a film, each next move already known in advance.
They moved on, careful not to make a sound, stopping often at Ghost’s silent signal to listen. The tracks led him, and where they broke off — intuition did. Soap followed a step behind, trusting Ghost’s choice of path completely. During one of these pauses, Ghost chambered a round and clicked the safety. He looked at Soap, making sure he’d done the same.
They veered off the deer trail, beginning to move slowly in an arc. Which meant Ghost already knew where the herd had stopped — or at least suspected, which in his case was nearly the same thing. He guided them from downwind, following every rule. The forest was silent, but now Soap sensed something false in that silence. They moved between tightly packed fir trees, their branches full of snow — light as down, it drifted soundlessly to the ground at the slightest movement of air.
They never heard the deer — they simply came upon the grazing herd and immediately took cover behind the trees, barely daring to breathe. Several minutes passed as Soap and Ghost looked at each other, wondering whether their appearance had gone unnoticed. But the deer didn’t spook. Their figures — brown, graceful, as if carved from wood, stood out clearly against the white canvas of the winter forest. Sensing no threat, they continued their business, pawing at the snow in search of food.
Ghost moved first. From here there was only one way forward — crawling low, blending with the tree trunks, freezing for long seconds marked out by the steady, pounding beat of the heart. Soap followed, half a step behind, mirroring every movement. He could see where Ghost was headed — toward a fallen pine lying across their path. A perfect position to hide, brace, and shoot.
They reached it almost at the same time and froze again, waiting it out until it was clear they hadn’t startled the game. The herd was small. Some of the deer grazed, some lay on the ground — but one stood apart from the rest. Taller, leaner, with slender antlers not yet heavy with age. He lingered slightly to the side, lifting his head more often, listening. Soap knew that in case of danger, it would be this one who sounded the alarm.
Ghost rose slightly and braced himself against a tree trunk, taking position for the shot. Soap glanced at him — and found himself staring. Simon’s face was focused, lips pressed tight, his gaze — like the rifle’s barrel, fixed precisely on the target. Soap had seen Ghost like this many times, but usually the mask turned him into an embodiment of death itself. Now, surprisingly, he looked… alive. His pale face was flushed from the cold, light brows drawn together, sunlight filtering through the firs catching gold on his lashes. In that moment, he was more beautiful than Soap had ever seen him.
Ghost felt his gaze but didn’t look back, and Soap, catching himself, returned his attention to the herd. He brought his own rifle up, scanning, trying to guess whom Simon would choose. It wasn’t about the animal itself — it was about the position. The shot had to pierce vital organs and kill cleanly, without causing unnecessary suffering.
The stag shifted farther aside, moving with graceful ease on long, slender legs, and Soap found himself admiring him. He could almost hear hooves breaking the crusted snow, saw breath steaming from the nostrils, imagined the hot pulse of blood moving through veins beneath the thick, snow-dusted hide. Even before the deer stopped, Soap knew it would be the one — and something inside him clenched with anticipation that, for some reason, felt wrong.
The deer took another step and froze broadside, turning into a target. The distance was perfect — just over a hundred meters. Ghost immediately settled behind the scope. He never rushed, and that unhurried confidence — the certainty that the bullet would inevitably find its mark, usually mesmerized Soap. But now he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the deer.
As if sensing them, it threw its head up and froze — a single, unforgivable second before the shot. The wind carried a sweet, musky scent, and Soap felt an impulse ripple through his body — the familiar one that usually made his finger tighten on the trigger. But this time the charge was inverted. It jolted him, sent a shiver through him, and suddenly Soap wanted the shot not to happen. Everything inside him tightened painfully, as if he himself were the target — as if the bullet were about to punch through his heart.
He shifted forward instinctively, pressing into the tree trunk. There was a sharp crack as an ice-coated branch snapped beneath his chest, and the deer bolted. The entire herd spooked and broke for the thicket, vanishing into it almost instantly. The noise faded as they fled, and within a minute the forest was quiet again — only now the silence rang with tension, taut as a drawn wire.
Ghost drilled him with his stare — like a soldering iron burning straight through. In it was a perfectly justified well done, Johnny, which, coming from Ghost, could just as easily be praise as condemnation. Which one this was didn’t need spelling out. Soap didn’t need any commentary anyway — he’d already cursed himself three times over for his carelessness and now waited for Ghost to finish him off.
But Simon only looked away in silence and clicked the safety. Opened the bolt, caught the ejected round in his palm as he unloaded the rifle. Stood up and stepped over the fallen trunk they’d been hiding behind, clearly intending to pursue the herd.
“So that’s it? Not even going to say anything?” Soap asked hoarsely, some ill-timed mix of stupidity and courage flaring up in him.
“And what is there to say?” Ghost replied dully.
For some reason, that sounded worse than if he’d exploded into curses. At least then Soap could’ve taken a defensive stance, argued back. Instead, all he could do was follow Simon and hope he wouldn’t screw up again.
But the chance didn’t came — simply because they never caught up to the herd. The tracks twisted and tangled through the forest, leading them astray again and again, and when darkness began to thicken between the trees, they had no choice but to give up and head back.
They walked home in silence. Ghost didn’t look irritated, though he avoided looking at Soap. The lack of conversation had more to do with Soap himself — he was still berating himself for such a disgraceful mistake. The only consolation was that tomorrow he’d have a whole day to make it right. He said as much to Ghost, who gave him a strange look, nodded, and muttered indistinctly:
“Of course.”
What that meant was anyone’s guess. Soap kept watching him back at the house — Ghost clearly wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t pleased either. Which meant Soap’s goal of giving him a proper Christmas hadn’t been achieved. And that was already too late to fix.
Soap’s mood soured completely. Inside the house they drifted to opposite corners almost at once. Ghost set about lighting the stove, while Soap grabbed his phone, trying to focus on anything other than the figure with his back turned to him.
He checked his messages. Gaz had sent him a photo — all of TF-141 surrounded by Canadians, ridiculous Christmas sweaters, someone even wearing antlers with bells. Gaz himself had a pair too — courtesy of Roach’s fingers behind his head. But what really made Soap grin was Price, who had actually put on a Santa hat. All that was missing was the white beard.
Merry Christmas, Soap typed, not really expecting Gaz to care about his phone — the celebration was probably already in full swing.
But Gaz read it instantly, and the three bouncing dots appeared.
Merry Christmas, Johnny.
Soap shuddered — as much as he loved it when Simon called him that, he hated hearing it from anyone else. Gaz knew that — and shamelessly used it.
Go fuck yourself, Soap replied, smiling all the same.
A pause, then the dots again.
What did yours get you? Besides a few new gray hairs.
Not funny, Soap wrote, though he did smirk.
Gaz deliberately avoided names or ranks, but it was more amusing than effective — if Ghost ever read the exchange, he’d recognize exactly who they were talking about instantly. Soap wouldn’t even get in trouble for it. What would happen to Gaz, though — hard to imagine.
Soap hesitated, unsure whether to go into details, but typed anyway:
He ignores the existence of things like that.
Of course — he already got the grand prize.
Yeah. A couple of days without people is the best gift for him.
One of you is clearly thick as a brick.
Soap snorted loud enough that Ghost shot him a suspicious look. Frowned, as if only just noticing that Soap was sitting there with his phone, then went back to what he was doing.
Have fun celebrating. Say hi to the lads from us, Soap wrote finally and put the phone away.
He looked at Simon again, thoughtful, knowing he had to break this wrong kind of silence somehow. The chat with Gaz had unexpectedly given him a boost. Now it was definitely courage speaking — and it came just in time, because Ghost straightened and met his gaze while Soap was still approaching, unsettling his resolve a little.
“Just say it — that I screwed everything up,” For a demand, it came out far too soft, and Soap bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed with himself all over again.
Ghost narrowed his eyes — he hated talking at such close range and instantly slipped into defense mode, even though Soap had never attacked him. His shoulders squared, chest lifting, making his already imposing frame look even larger. Soap, however, merely crossed his arms over his chest and met his gaze, making it clear he wasn’t backing down. The failed hunt had been unpleasant, but not enough to ruin the rest of their evening.
Ghost exhaled, as if shedding the tension that had built up inside him, and replied evenly:
“It’s not like that.”
One pin had been lifted — and there were still plenty left. Soap was determined to pick the lock.
“Then what is going on?” he pressed on, knowing that if he did this right and didn’t push too hard, he could draw Ghost into a conversation. “If you’re angry about that deer, then I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose — you know that.”
“You didn’t want me to shoot,” Ghost said, looking him straight in the eye, leaving no room to dodge. “And the hunt doesn’t interest you either.”
He wasn’t asking — he was stating facts. Each word landed heavier than the last, like a hammer striking an anvil. After a brief pause, Soap decided there was no point denying it and nodded.
“Then why pretend?” Ghost continued. “I would’ve agreed to come here anyway — just to be alone with you.”
Soap opened his mouth, then closed it again, equally stunned by the bluntness — and offended by it. How many times had he tried to coax some kind of confession out of Ghost, only to run headfirst into armor a tank wouldn’t be ashamed of — and now he just said things like that so easily, as if they were nothing. As if he didn’t know how they flared under Soap’s skin, spreading heat through his entire body.
“I wasn’t pretending,” Soap shot back, more sharply than he’d meant to. “I was trying to understand it. I wanted to like it too.”
“Why?”
Soap snorted and looked away for a moment, gathering his composure. Ghost was a professional when it came to war — and an absolute amateur when it came to love.
“Because it’s the only interest you have outside of work that I know about,” Soap sighed, aware he wasn’t being sarcastic — sometimes Ghost genuinely needed simple things explained. “For a while I even thought you’d taken an interest in… cooking. But I guess I was wrong.”
“Johnny…”
Ghost stepped closer — so suddenly that Soap nearly stepped back. A habit ingrained from his earliest days of service: never let anyone get that close without reason. But with Simon, all his instincts misfired — when the inner voice said run, his body did the exact opposite.
“You know what interests me besides work?”
Soap looked at him, irritated by the fact that he had to look up, and thought he really would snap if Ghost dropped another unexpected truth on him now.
“I wanted to shoot that deer to cook dinner,” Ghost said, pausing briefly, as if giving him time to connect the dots. “For you.”
“You… what?” Soap laughed, convinced it was a joke — Ghost’s attempts at humor were often spectacularly awkward. “Dinner? Pretty sure that deer just died of natural causes without our help.”
Steel flashed in Simon’s gaze, and Soap fell silent. He thought, looked closer — and with something tightening painfully inside, realized it hadn’t been a joke at all.
Fragments of information flickered through his mind, almost forgotten because on their own they meant nothing. But now, pieced together, they suddenly made sense.
“Wait — hold on,” Soap said, lifting a hand to stop Ghost from interrupting the realization forming in his head. “So I wasn’t wrong? All those muted videos you’d immediately turn off whenever I walked in… they were cooking videos? Some Jamie Oliver type?”
He’d said it offhandedly, but one look at Ghost’s face told him he’d hit the mark. And the thought kept rolling, knocking others down like dominoes.
“And that dinner at Price’s… the one I jokingly called ‘for the elite’ — when he only invited you, and you—”
“I was learning how to grill steaks, Johnny,” Ghost replied calmly, as if it meant nothing at all.
Something inside Soap clicked — and exploded like fireworks, scattering bright sparks everywhere. Apparently, he didn’t know Simon as well as he’d thought — and for some reason, that delighted him. Along with this new file added to the mental dossier on Ghost that Soap so carefully kept, came a sense of relief, as if a long-standing problem had finally resolved itself. Everything fell into place. Ghost just wanted to please him. In his own way: tracking something down and laying the prey at his feet. It was… oddly touching. Entirely his style. Soap even felt a little regret that he wouldn’t be able to appreciate it fully — he still didn’t want to kill a deer. But he wasn’t going to stop Simon either.
“Listen, we’ve still got all of tomorrow,” he said, repeating what he’d said before. “You’ll have time to—”
“Tomorrow will be too late,” Ghost interrupted.
“Why?”
“Because today is Christmas.”
“And?”
“You are waiting for a gift every year.”
“And?”
Soap cut himself off, realizing he was now perfectly mimicking Ghost himself — who, despite the richness of the English language, favored sentences that consisted of a single letter.
Instead of replying, Simon turned away. For a moment Soap thought it was a shameful retreat, but Ghost suddenly crouched by his backpack and pulled something from a side pocket. He straightened and returned just as abruptly, closing the distance between them in a single step.
Soap stared first at him, then at the hand hidden behind his back. It still felt like a prank — but his gut told him Ghost wasn’t capable of those. His face said the same: unusually serious and focused, the expression he wore only when looking down a scope before pulling the trigger.
“I have something for you.”
He extended his palm, revealing a small box. Tiny, gift-shaped — even with a little gold bow that looked strangely fitting against the restrained gray background.
Something inside Soap snapped and crashed downward with a dull roar. He stared at the box, still afraid to touch it — as if it might vanish, turn out to be a mirage.
“What is it?” he asked, smiling despite himself. “Bit small for a gag. You promised me one, remember?”
He was still trying to joke, though he already knew what was inside — knew it as clearly as he’d known which deer Ghost would choose to shoot. The realization hit like a shot of whiskey, flooding his head and burning his cheeks.
With trembling hands, Soap took the box, lifted the lid — and froze. Inside was a ring. A simple band with clean, restrained lines. It caught the light from the lamp and glinted softly, but Soap stared at it as if it were a grenade pin. As if he had only a moment left to grasp something vital before everything went off.
But the seconds passed, and nothing happened. His heart slowed, his thoughts settled. Soap took a deep breath, gathering himself back together from the ringing fragments inside.
“This is… what?” he repeated, coughing as his voice failed him again.
Simon’s brows rose.
“What does it look like?” he asked reasonably.
He was grave as at a funeral — no hint of a smile. Only wariness and a careful, searching look, as if he expected a trick. That seriousness transferred to Soap, who stiffened too, watching Simon and recognizing an emotion he’d never seen in him before.
Standing there, waiting for his answer, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley was scared — as if he weren’t offering a ring, but his life. Not because he didn’t trust Soap, but because trusting anyone had always been hard for him.
He didn’t ask anything — simply couldn’t. Words had always been the hardest thing for him. And Soap, who’d never struggled with them, stayed silent too. The answer had formed in his head long before the unasked question — but he hesitated, fully aware of how significant this step was for both of them.
Simon was giving him himself. And that was worth more than anything Soap could ever give in return.
One of you is clearly thick as a brick, Gaz’s words resurfaced at the worst possible moment, and Soap bit his lip.
Ghost watched him like a man awaiting his sentence, while Soap stared at the ring — and inside him, something warm and growing pressed insistently against his ribs. It pulsed, spreading heat through his body, tingling in his fingertips. They burned with the urge to touch the ring still resting in the box — as if to check whether the metal was really as warm as it seemed.
Soap took the ring between two fingers, lifting it carefully, and placed it in his palm. Closed his fist around it, feeling it immediately warm, heated by his skin.
Simon still didn’t ask — but Soap was ready to answer.
“Yes,” he said — not nearly as firm or confident as he’d intended, and then it all broke loose.
The emotions he’d been holding back slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs, overwhelming him — and his eyes burned with sudden moisture.
“Yes, hell… of course yes,” he repeated, as if once weren’t enough.
He stepped toward Ghost, rigid as a statue — but the moment Soap touched him, he came alive. Ghost wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled him in. He tipped Soap’s chin up with his fingers and covered his mouth with his own — light, as if he only wanted to feel the warmth of his lips. Tongue slid into Soap’s mouth, brushed against his, and this wasn’t a fight for control, but a slow, viscous tender. Soap thought he felt relief in it — shared between them both. So Simon could kiss like this too. Soap went still, surrendering to the sensation, savoring this discovery.
He broke the kiss first and rested his forehead against Ghost’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. He felt exposed, laid bare, but in this, they were equals now. They had silently named their fears to each other — and for the moment, those fears retreated, stripped of their power.
There was still one thing left to say. Soap knew there would never be a better moment — but he couldn’t force out the words that had lived on his tongue for so long, that surged from his chest in moments of closeness, spreading through him like gentle sunlight.
“Johnny,” Ghost said, as if reading his thoughts. “Say it.”
The need was there — the words burned inside him, begging to be let out, but Soap didn’t know how to say them without sounding foolish.
“I just…” He faltered and swore softly, muffling the words against Ghost’s shoulder. “Damn, Simon, I—”
He trailed off, grasping for words so simple — and impossibly difficult. Ghost spared him the effort. He threaded his fingers into Soap’s hair, ran his palm over the crown of his head, sending waves of goosebumps through him, and said quietly:
“I know, Johnny. I do too.”
Soap closed his eyes, imprinting those words into memory, tucking them away in his private vault — alongside everything precious connected to Ghost. There was a lot there. And every year it grew, adding another circle, like the rings in the trunk of an old tree — each one cutting deeper into the soul.
Soap clenched his fist tighter around the ring — warm now, heated by his skin, and thought that, in truth, he’d never needed any gifts at all.
Not beyond this one.