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December 20th
Price is knee deep in paperwork. Being on alert during one of the busiest times of year is full of logistical nightmares and there’s a form for every one of them.
There’d been a significant increase in enemy activity and the terror threat had risen along with it. The higher ups were worried about retaliation for a recent mission, so their usual Christmas leave had to be scrapped given that they had to be ready to ship out at a moment’s notice.
It was all a big headache. Literally. John could feel one creeping its way through his skull.
He barely registers the knock at the door, responding for whoever it is to come in mostly out of reflex. Footsteps move closer and his favourite mug enters his line of sight before being placed safely on the corner of his desk, out of the way of the various piles of paper.
It’s a comically large ceramic number, with ‘Number One Dad’ printed on the front in silver glitter. He’d found it left on his desk on his birthday, a bright pink bow tied around the handle.
No one had owned up to it of course but there were three suspects at the top of his list.
Initially he’d scoffed and intended to shove it to the back of the cupboard, but it holds a huge quantity of tea which means he doesn’t have to leave his desk as often and something about the way the handle could fit his entire hand was rather pleasing.
Currently it’s filled with an earthy amber liquid that steams enticingly.
“Alright Cap? Bought you a cuppa.” The angel announces itself.
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick. His protégé. God, he picked good with that one.
“You’re a fucking star, you know that Gaz?”
“Oh I’m well aware, sir.” Gaz grins at him and John returns it before taking a sip of the delicious nectar. It’s pure bliss and he basks in it for a moment, eyes falling shut, muscles loosening slightly.
“Don’t suppose there’s any Christmas decs around here is there Cap?”
He snaps his eyes open to look at Gaz. The question echoes in his mind, braincells scrambling desperately after focusing on nothing but the paperwork that’s consumed his every waking moment.
His temples start to throb as stares at his sergeant. “Come again, Gaz?”
“Christmas decorations, sir. Something to make the base feel a bit more festive? Seeing as we’re all gunna be here for it.”
John feels his eyebrows raise and wonders if he’s slipped into some alternate universe or if the paperwork has finally made a screw lose.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone decorate the base, Gaz.”
Kyle sighs and if he were feeling saner Price would say there was a dramatic edge to it.
“Shame that, thought it’d be nice. Help cheer everyone up. Bit gloomy round here.” Gaz shoots him a look of despair.
John feels his eyelid twitch. It must be the caffeine.
“Well,” he starts slowly, “we were allotted a small budget for Christmas provisions.”
Gaz stares at him expectantly.
“I suppose decorations falls under that?”
Face lighting up like, well, a kid at Christmas, Gaz grins at him “you’re the best, Cap.”
Keeping the mug steady in one hand, John reaches over with the other and slides the top drawer of his desk open. Fishing around he manages to find the credit card assigned for spending.
He holds it out to Gaz who takes it with a beaming smile and salutes him with it.
“Watcher.”
Maybe the lack of sleep is causing him to hallucinate.
“Oh, one more thing Cap.” Gaz spins back to face him. “I was thinking maybe secret santa would be good? Just you, me, Soap and Ghost? You’ll sort it yeah?”
The door snicks shut and it’s just him and the paperwork once more.
He stares down at his mug, the lettering glittering obnoxiously under the fluorescent lights and feels slightly like he’s been had.
December 22nd
Soap sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair as he assesses the list in front of him. Being on base over Christmas doesn’t bother him, they could be needed at any second and it’s better than kicking around bored out of his mind on leave like he usually does.
However, it means they’re tasked with jobs that are lower priority and often handed off to someone else before they get to them. Like inventory.
Soap fucking hates inventory.
He isn't one to shirk responsibilities and his role is full of mundane tasks that need doing. But inventory falls into one of the circles of hell. Turns out counting large quantities of items is tedious as fuck. Hence his current avoidance.
“Alright Tav?” Gaz strolls in, making a beeline for the kettle.
Soap shoots him a grimace, hoping to convey his agonous state of existence.
“That bad?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at him “a coffee help?”
Hands clasped in front of his face he closes his eyes, “I’d owe you me life.”
"Reckon you owe me that anyway.” Gaz laughs
“Get tae fuck,” Soap scoffs, eyes drifting dourly back to the list. The background noise of the coffee being made somewhat soothes his ire.
Gaz snorts as he moves over to the table, eyes shining with amusement at John's grabby hands.
Passing the mug over he nods at the seat opposite, “mind if I sit?”
Soap shoots him a look, “why would I mind ye weirdo?”
“Just don’t want to distract you mate” Gaz shrugs, pulling out the chair.
Sliding the list down the table and mindful of the coffee, he mock bangs his fists on the surface. “Gaz, am beggin ye. Please fucking distract me.”
The other man’s face splits into a grin and he reaches into his pockets. Settling into the chair he slaps multiple packs of paper chain strips down.
He slides half across the table to Soap. “Right MacTavish, you and me, paperchains. Let’s see who’s the fastest.”
Cracking his knuckles, Soap narrows his eyes. “And what happens when I beat your sorry arse, Garrick?”
“Cocky talk from someone who couldn’t beat my time on the selection course.” Gaz smirks at him.
Soap purses his lips and they stare at each other for a moment, tension zipping down his spine at the steely glint in Gaz's eye. The fucker can be harder to read than Ghost when he wants to be.
Taking a slow sip of his coffee Gaz leans back in his chair, “I’ll do inventory.”
Gaz has named his terms and it's do or die.
“Let’s fucking go.”
The first few minutes are a mad flurry, each man deciding their tactics. Soap opts to open all of the packets and lay them out on the table. Gaz going with the one packet at a time method.
Fingers moving deftly, Soap takes a strip from the first pile and forms a chain. Thank fuck Gaz bought the pre glued ones.
He soon gets into a rhythm, barely needing to look at the piles, hand reaching automatically. There’s almost a calming aspect to it, the repetitive nature of looping one chain through the other.
Flicking an eye over to Gaz he feels satisfaction starting to build, the man is barely through his third packet whilst Soap is nearly through all his piles.
Focus. Keep yerself in check, ye belter.
Tamping down the flare of glee he locks back in, pace picking up as he nears the end. His fingertips chafe slightly from the repeated rubbing of the paper. It's a small price to pay for an inventory free life.
Looping the final strip round and sticking it down he releases it, chain slinking to ground as he lifts his arms up in victory.
“Witness my glory!” He jeers, shooting a shit-eating grin at Gaz.
The other man sighs, releasing his own paper chain and raising his palms. “Too quick for me this time Tav. Makes a change.”
”Keep dreaming, pal." Soap chuffs.
Stretching out his shoulders he watches as Gaz starts collecting up the remaining packets.
“You’re no gunna finish them all?” he frowns.
Gaz shakes his head, “nah think there should be enough if we connect them together.”
Scooting his chair back Soap leans under the table and finds the ends of the two chains. When he straightens back up Gaz is already holding out a strip.
He plucks it off him and clears his throat, putting on an affected English accent as he forms the joining loop. "With this ring, I thee wed."
Gaz laughs, pure and unrestrained, head thrown back.
Snickering to himself Soap starts pulling the chain towards him. It’s a satisfying sight, the different colours interlinked, snaking across the length breakroom floor.
“Christ Gaz, this thing could reach the fuckin' arctic!"
Gaz smiles at him with an air of smugness, “all you, Tav.”
Oh. The wee cunt.
“Ye fuckin' planned it that way didn’t ye?”
“Dunno what you mean mate,” Gaz begins gathering the chain into his arms.
Soap scoffs and fumes silently. He’s been played expertly, and he can’t help but feel impressed. Raging, but fucking impressed.
“Thanks for the help pal.” Gaz pats him on the shoulder on his way out.
The simpering tone of it stokes the smoldering flame in Soaps chest into a full on blaze.Tragically, the immediate area is bereft of anything that could be launched at his head. Sly git.
Soap draws a steadying breath through his nose and unclenches his jaw. Swiping the forgotten cup of coffee he takes a gulp before jolting it away. It's stone fucking cold.
The mostly full mug sloshes over the rim before he can correct it and splashes onto the table. It spreads over the surface, streaming over the edge into Soaps lap.
"Ach, ye clatty bastard!" He jumps up and barely restrains himself from hurling the mug across the room.
Turning to get something to mop up the mess he sees the inventory list further down the table, soaked in coffee.
A serene wave of resolve sweeps over him as he stares at the paper. Kyle Garrick better count his days.
December 23rd
“Oi Lt, give us a hand would you?”
Ghost stops in his tracks and pokes his head into the breakroom. Gaz is precariously balanced on one end of the sofa, holding up a seemingly endless paper chain.
“Just need someone to hold the weight while I get the first bit pinned up, will only take second,” he continues.
There’s a large box open on the sofa next to him, garish multicoloured tinsel spilling out. Ghost slides it onto the floor and it jingles ominously. Stepping up onto the other end of the sofa he takes the length of paper chains Gaz hands to him.
Eventually they get them up, chains zig zagging across the entire ceiling. It's the tackiest shit he's ever seen but it's also kind of ... pretty?
It seems the decorations don’t end there. In the corner there’s a sad, scraggly looking seven-foot artificial tree that appears to have been painstakingly fluffed. Coloured lights weaved meticulously throughout the branches.
“Nice, isn’t it LT?”
Ghost nearly snorts but then catches sight of the pleased look on Gaz’s face.
Oh. He’s being serious.
“Yeah” he manages to cough out.
Gaz grins in response, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He turns back to the box and starts pulling out gaudy decorations that look straight from the eighties.
Now’s the time to make a swift exit. Ghost edges back, feet silent on the concrete floor.
Straightening up Gaz spins round, arms full of baubles of every colour known to man.
“Wanna help me decorate the tree?”
Ghost feels sweat start to gather at the nape of his neck, seeping into the material of his balaclava.
“You got somewhere else to be LT? Don’t want to keep you.”
Have Gaz’s eyes always been that big and shiny? Surely not.
“No, it’s fine” he mutters.
Slightly dazed, Ghost finds himself looking for the perfect branches to hang the baubles on, second-guessing every placement.
At least it’s quiet.
Johnny had been humming 'Last Christmas' for the past week and Ghost had seriously contemplated skinning him alive after waking up at 3am with it stuck in his head.
Gaz doesn’t talk much as they work, something Ghost has always appreciated about him. He never forces a conversation and is one of the few people who seems comfortable enough to sit in silence and not make it awkward.
Plus he tolerates Ghosts terrible puns, even offers a few of his own sometimes.
He flicks his eyes to said man. There’s a relaxed ease to his face that he's never seen before. It strikes him just how young Gaz is.
It’s easy to forget on the field and even on base. Gaz is poised and proficient in all he does. A good soldier and a good man.
“How’d you usually spend Christmas?”
Gaz’s arm stills, outstretched to place another bauble. His eyes move to meet Ghost’s and he seems just as shocked that he asked the question as Ghost feels to have asked it.
Ever the professional he recovers quickly, expression smoothing out, bauble securely hung.
“With my family. There’s fucking loads of them. The house is always noisy and full of people. There’s always an argument and my dad always burns the gravy.”
He’s grinning as he says it but after a moment his face falls slightly. He turns and reaches into the box, pulling out some of the god awful tinsel Ghost had seen earlier.
“It’s hard not being there. But I knew the sacrifice when I took the job and we’ll have a second Christmas whenever I next go on leave.”
Moving back to the tree he shrugs and shoots Ghost a rueful smile before clearing his throat. “What about you? How do you celebrate Christmas LT?”
“Get a takeaway,” he grunts, avoiding thinking about the dingy flat he spends leave in.
Gaz nods as he works the tinsel over the branches. “Nice. What’s your go to?”
“Fucking murder a curry.”
“Hell yeah you do,” Gaz grins as he holds out his fist. Ghost meets it with his own.
“God. I love Christmas food. My sister makes the best ginger biscuits every Christmas. Puts my fitness at serious risk with the amount of them I eat. I’ll try bring some back one time, know you love a bickie”
It’s Ghost’s turn to freeze. His sweet tooth is a well-kept and closely guarded secret that apparently hasn’t escaped Gaz’s notice.
“Sounds good,” he finally manages to choke out.
They fall back into silence as Ghost replays every interaction trying to figure out where he slipped up. He's careful never to stash his treats in the same spot twice too.
Eventually the pile of decorations diminishes. The end is in sight.
Rummaging through the box Gaz places an angel tree topper down on the sofa as he digs around in the bottom to check for more baubles. The thing rolls onto its side and Ghost gets a good look at it.
It’s fucking horrific. The cherubic porcelain face is almost grey with age, the eyes were probably brown once but now just look black. Worse still is the malevolent smile painted on, sardonically shaping its cheeks as it beams up at Ghost.
“Well,” Gaz says, hands on hips. “That’s it I think, all that’s left is the topper.”
Ghost nods, relieved to be done and already thinking about the long lay down he’s going to take.
“Here LT, you can do the honours.” He’s jolted back to awareness as Gaz holds the cursed doll out to him.
Taking a step back he waves him off, “nah that’s alright, you do it.”
“Nope. You didn’t have to help me, it’s a reward for all the hard work you’ve put in.” Gaz says earnestly.
He seems to take Ghost's bewildered silence as acceptance and the angel is forced into his hand.
“Besides, in the Garrick household tradition states the oldest does it," Gaz sweeps an arm towards the tree, edges up of his mouth curling, "so get on with it old man.”
The fucking cheek of this kid.
Reluctantly, Ghost shuffles forward and stuffs the hideous thing on top of the tree. It wobbles slightly and he tries to ignore the way its eyes seem to stay on him as it sways to and fro.
They stand back and admire their work. Or at least Gaz does, Ghost needs a stiff drink.
“Where the fuck did you get all this from anyway?” He grunts.
“Bit of it came from the local supermarket although it was slim pickings this close to Christmas,” Gaz rocks back on his feet, still assessing the tree.
“The rest came from the charity shop in town. The woman in there told me how lucky I was to get them at this time of year. Apparently, an old lady died and her grandson donated all of her decorations yesterday.”
Ghost’s eyes flick back to the angel grinning sinisterly down at them.
“Fucking hell.”
December 25th
Gaz shuffles into the break room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d allowed himself the luxury of not setting his alarm given it’s Christmas morning but even so he’d woken up at seven am sharp. Which could be classified as a lay in compared to the usual five am starts. But still.
“About time, was about to come drag you out of bed you lazy sod.”
Whipping his head round Gaz is greeted by the sight of the 141. Ghost and Price occupy the sofa, Soap sits cross legged on the floor just in front. All of them in various states of consciousness and dress.
Price has foregone his usual hat and his hair sticks up at alarming angles on one half whilst completely flat on the other.
Soap squints balefully at him, eyelids barely cracked open. It's a wonder he's out of bed, Gaz doesn't want to know who managed it or how.
He catches sight of Ghost’s jumper and nearly chokes on his own spit. The black and white knit stretches over his large frame, the words ‘Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal’ across the torso.
Glancing away he meets Price’s eye which nearly sends him over the edge again, the man smirks at him, eyes sparkling. Old fucker.
He tilts his head towards the tree, “go on lad, your idea, you do the work.”
Making his was over he bumps his shin into Tav's side and gets shoved away with a grunt.
He folds down onto the floor and scootches closer to the tree, a small pile of presents stacked neatly underneath. Flipping the tags over, he's amused as always by the difference in handwriting between the three men.
Wait.
“Hang on, there’s three here addressed to me?”
“Ye musta snuck on tae Santa’s nice list, ye wee dobber.” Soap grouses but it's tempered by his lobsided grin.
He catches Price hide his smile behind his mug out of the corner of his eye as Ghost lets out an amused huff.
They've managed to coordinate and pull one over on him and he's not sure how.
Confused and a little suspicious he sets the presents for himself aside before handing out the rest to the others.
Sitting back, they all look at him expectantly.
Ghost extends his leg and nudges him with a slippered foot, “get on with it then, Garrick.”
Selecting the closest present Gaz rips open the wrapping paper, a camouflage patterned scarf sliding out into his lap. Holding it up to get a better look he takes in the neat rows. The edges are a little wobbly here and there but it’s soft and thick when he sinks his fingers into it.
Soap clears his throat, cheeks and neck flushed slightly pink.
“Me nan taught me to crochet when I was a wean. Took it back up recently, keeps me hands busy,” he says, picking at a loose thread on his joggers.
Gaz bites back a comment about how else he seems to have been keeping his hands busy recently and instead winds the scarf around his neck. It’s immediately cosy and he gives in to the urge to bury his nose in it.
“You absolute blinder, thanks Tav,” Gaz grins.
Soap beams back at him, “nae bother bro.”
Scanning the remaining presents, he selects the smallest one next. Under the paper is a thin cardboard box, it rattles slightly as he moves to open the top.
“Ah that’ll be mine” Price says, fingers tightening around his mug handle.
Reaching in Gaz carefully extracts the contents and sits it in his palm, admiring the weight of it.
It’s a small, hand carved bear. The wood is dark and shiny, the surface highly polished.
He absorbs the tiny, delicate details of the face and the paws, each toe defined. Rotating it in his hand he’s awestruck by the craftsmanship and sheer amount of hours that must have gone into it.
Looking up, slightly bewildered he asks, “you made this, Cap?”
Price nods and takes another sip of his tea. “Haven’t carved anything in years, surprised at how it came out.”
“I don’t know what to say sir, this is incredible.”
Smiling softly, Price tips his mug towards him. “Merry Christmas, Gaz.”
“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs.
Placing the bear delicately on the side table he turns his attention to the last parcel under the tree. The wrapping paper is the same as Soap’s and Gaz suspects he’s the one who wrapped it.
He tears the edges open and pauses as the contents come into view. It’s a clear tupperware box, full to the brim of -
“Ginger biscuits,” Ghost gruffs.
Blinking rapidly Gaz pries the lid off and stares down at them. Snowflake shaped golden-brown biscuits, all iced with pin straight lines, forming beautifully intricate patterns.
They’re so immaculate he’s hesitant to eat one but looking back up he sees the pinched corners of Ghost’s eyes. He’s waiting for a reaction.
Taking the top one he bites off a chunk. Flavour explodes in his mouth, spices tingling across his tongue, leaving a deep syrupy aftertaste. “Bloody hell LT, these are delicious!” He says through the mouthful.
“They should be, they’re a traditional family recipe” Soap crows before Ghost smacks him round the back of the head.
“Glad you like ‘em,” Ghost rumbles. His feet shift, toes flexing at the end of his slippers.
Slapping away Soaps encroaching hand he replaces the lid and moves the tub fully out of the other man's reach.
"Greedy tadger," Soap mutters with a pout.
Gaz smirks as he stuffs the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. Dusting his hands off he claps them together.
“Right, you lot now!"
As he watches them open their presents, (Price gets a new hat, Soap a hair trimmer and Ghost a wicked looking flip knife), a solid warmth blooms in his chest.
Honestly, there’s nowhere he’d rather be.