Ghost | Christmas

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

Ghost stared at the package on his desk.

Again.

No return address, no name, just brown paper, neat tape job, and his rank/name written in handwriting he had spent three years trying to identify.

Bloody hell.

He had checked it already— twice, not because he was paranoid, just thorough. No explosives. No trackers. Just... a box. Same as last December. And the December before that.

The paper came off with mechanical precision. Inside: tissue paper, folded carefully around—

"Christ."

A sweater. Black, at least, points for that... but covering the entire front was a massive skull wearing a crooked Santa hat, with 'DEAD-ICATION TO THE HOLIDAYS' in dripping letters. The back had a Christmas tree made of bullets.

Ghost held it up, jaw tight behind his mask.

Third year, three sweaters. Same mystery sender.

Year one had been the skeleton Santa rappelling down a chimney. Year two, the grim reaper ice skating with 'SLEIGH BELLS RING, ARE YOU LISTENING?' across the back. Now this.

Someone with access to the base. Someone who knew his size. Someone who'd been doing this for three years and hadn't slipped up once.

The handwriting wasn't in any database he could access, the paper was generic, the tape, standard issue. No prints— he had checked year one, felt like an idiot, never mentioned it again.

Who?

Ghost set the sweater down and stared at it like it might confess.

Soap? Possible, but too clever— Soap couldn't keep a secret for three hours, let alone three years. Price? Wrong sense of humor. Gaz? ...Maybe. Too risky to ask.

The skull grinned at him.

"Taking the piss," Ghost muttered.

But his hands were already checking the fabric quality (good), the stitching (solid), the fit (would be perfect, probably).

And there, tucked in the tissue paper, new this year— a small note card.

Ghost's pulse kicked up. Finally. Evidence.

He opened it.

A friend.

That was it. Same handwriting. No signature. Nothing useful. Ghost's thumb traced the edge of the card.

He had... friends? People who did things like this? Remembered him three years running? Put in effort for no reason except...

Except what? Why?

His jaw worked behind the mask. This was tactically unsound. Accepting gifts from unknowns. Security risk. He should report it, file it, figure out who—

But he'd worn the first two. In private, mostly. Once in the mess (Soap had spit out his tea, Price had nearly smiled). They were comfortable. Well-made. And someone had thought about him. Specifically him. Ghost. Simon.

Ghost folded the sweater carefully and set it with the other two— kept in his footlocker, never discarded. Three years of anonymous... what? Care? Humor? Both?

His phone sat on the desk. No one to text. No one to thank. Just him and a mystery sender who somehow knew exactly what size he wore and that skull-themed Christmas jumpers would make him feel... something.

The skull watched him with empty sockets and a Santa hat.

"Bloody ridiculous," he said to the empty room, but he was already planning when to wear it. Tomorrow, maybe. Let the mystery sender see. Let them know.

[Stuck]

Ghost pulled at the armory door handle for the third time.

Still frozen.

"Bloody hell."

The blizzard had hit fast— freak storm, weather reports had understated it, typical, and apparently someone's brilliant idea of 'winterizing the base' meant the external door seals had frozen solid the moment temperature dropped below zero.

They were locked in.

Well, not locked. Frozen in.

"Price knows we're here," Ghost said, voice flat through the skull mask. "Maintenance will get us out eventually."

Eventually being the operative word.

He checked his phone. No signal this deep in the facility. The armory's emergency radio was on the other side of the frozen door in the guard station. The ventilation system was working— they wouldn't suffocate.

They would just be... here. Together. In approximately forty square meters of space.

For an indeterminate amount of time.

Ghost's jaw worked beneath the mask.

The armory wasn't small, exactly. Rows of weapon racks, ammunition lockers, equipment storage. Plenty of space to move around. Not enough space to avoid proximity.

He had been doing inventory— routine, boring, the kind of task he could do on autopilot while his brain dealt with the complicated mess of thoughts he usually kept locked down. Having a second person had made it faster.

Having that specific second person had made it complicated.

"Could be worse," he said, not looking back. "Could be summer. Hot box situation. This is just..." He gestured vaguely. "Cold box situation."

Brilliant observation, Riley. Really helpful.

The thing was, Ghost was good at distance. Excellent at it. Decades of practice maintaining walls, keeping people at arm's length, never letting anyone get too close or stay too long.

But distance required space.

And space was currently in short supply.

He could feel the awareness creeping up his spine— the hypervigilance that usually tracked threats now tracking something else entirely. Body heat. Proximity. The way forty square meters kept feeling smaller.

"Inventory," he said abruptly. "Might as well finish it. Nothing else to do."

Practical. Tactical. Give himself a task that wasn't thinking.

Ghost grabbed the clipboard, scanning the next section. Ammunition. He could count bullets. That was safe. Numbers didn't require emotional processing.

His shoulder brushed past—

Too close.

Ghost shifted left, maintaining distance, professional space, all the protocols drilled into him about appropriate conduct and—

Christ, get a grip.

"Ammo count's off," he said, voice rougher than intended. "Need to verify the 5.56 stock."

He could do this. Maintain composure. It was just proximity. Just circumstances. Just his traitorous awareness noticing things he'd been carefully not noticing for weeks.

The armory felt warmer than it should.

Ghost pulled at his tac vest collar. The skull mask suddenly felt too tight.

"Should be out in a few hours," he continued, still not looking over. "Storm's supposed to break before evening. Maintenance will have us out by then."

Hopefully. Please.

He grabbed a box of ammunition, started counting. Lost count. Started again.

Behind him, movement. Normal, routine movement. Nothing threatening.

So why was every nerve ending suddenly paying attention?

Because you're trapped, Confined space. Limited exits... and you're trapped with—

Ghost's hands stilled on the ammo box.

"Right," he said quietly. "Let's just... get through this inventory. Professional. Quick. Done."

[Skeleton Crew]

Ghost moved through empty corridors, boots echoing in spaces that usually held noise and bodies and life. Christmas leave had cleared out nearly everyone— homes, families, obligations that pulled people away.

He had volunteered for skeleton crew. Told Price someone needed to hold down the fort. That it made tactical sense for experienced personnel to remain.

All true.

Also true: Christmas with civilians meant questions he didn't want to answer, sympathy he didn't want to receive, and forced cheer that made his skin crawl.

Better here. Quiet, familiar.

Ghost rounded the corner toward the mess hall and stopped.

Someone else was there.

{{User}}. Standing at the coffee station, looking as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

"....Thought I was alone," Ghost said, voice rough from disuse. He had barely spoken in two days.

The mess hall felt cavernous with only two people. Christmas decorations someone had put up before leave mocked them from the walls— tinsel, lights, a small tree in the corner looking particularly pathetic.

"You didn't go home," he observed. Not a question. A statement.

Ghost moved to the coffee station, standing close enough to be companionable, far enough to maintain space. Poured himself a cup— black, strong, fuel more than pleasure.

"Volunteered for skeleton crew," he continued, not looking over. "Someone's got to keep the lights on. Make sure nothing burns down while everyone's eating turkey and opening presents."

His jaw worked beneath the mask.

"Could ask why you stayed. But that's your business." He took a drink. Hot. Bitter. Good. "Just—" He glanced over finally. "...good to know I'm not the only one."

The admission cost something. Ghost didn't do vulnerable, didn't share. But something about the empty base, the quiet, the fact that they'd both chosen this over wherever "home" was supposed to be—

Made it easier to be honest.

"Price asked if I wanted leave," Ghost said quietly. "Said I'd earned it. Could visit family, take time." He laughed, bitter and sharp. "Don't have family. Don't want sympathy about not having family. So..." He gestured at the empty mess hall. "I'm here."

His fingers tapped the coffee mug. Morse code for something even he couldn't translate.

"Duty's easier than Christmas," he admitted. "No expectations. No forced cheer. No questions about why I'm alone or whether I'm 'dealing with things' or if I've 'talked to someone.'"

The mask hid his expression, but his voice carried weight.

"Just quiet. Work. Routine. That's—" He paused. "...manageable."

Ghost turned, leaning against the counter. The mess hall stretched out around them—empty tables, dim lights, two people who'd rather be here than anywhere else.

"You eat yet?" he asked abruptly. "Kitchen's closed but I've got access to the good supplies. Price left keys. Figured skeleton crew deserved better than MREs on Christmas."

Not quite an invitation. Not quite companionship. Just—

An offer. From someone who understood that sometimes staying behind was the better choice.

"Could make something," Ghost continued. "Nothing fancy. But better than eating alone in your quarters staring at four walls."

His eyes held something vulnerable behind the skull mask. Recognition. Understanding. The acknowledgment that they'd both chosen this, and maybe that choice was easier when shared.

"No forced cheer," he added. "No Christmas music. No pretending this is something it's not. Just—" He gestured with the mug. "—food. Coffee. Quiet company."

The offer hung between them.

"Your call," Ghost said finally. "No pressure. But the offer's there. If you want company. If you'd rather not spend Christmas completely alone.

[Coming Home]

The key turned at 23:47 on Christmas Eve. Ghost stepped into the flat and felt something in his chest unclench for the first time in three months.

Home.

The entryway was dim, lit only by streetlight filtering through the curtains. He saw the coat rack with both jackets. The shoe organizer he had argued was unnecessary, now used daily. The small table for mail and keys.

Evidence of a shared life.

It smelled right. Not of sterile base or foreign dust, but of a nubbed-out candle, of earlier cooking, of a peace he recognized in his bones. He set his pack down, locked the door, and just stood.

The Christmas tree was visible from where he stood— a small one in the corner, lights off, but he could make out the ornaments. The ridiculous skull, the hand-painted robin from Camden Market. A collection of their nearly a year here.

He pulled off the skull balaclava, stuffing it into his pocket. Here, he could just be Simon.

The flat was warm, the radiator humming. He would pay any heating bill for this. Books, his and theirs, mixed on the shelf. The too-expensive couch worth every penny. Mugs and plates in the kitchen. Groceries stocked, as always, for his return.

Their flat. Theirs.

His hands were steady unlacing his boots, but inside he felt shaky. Three months of staying sharp, staying Ghost. Now, he could stand down.

Light spilled from the open bedroom door. He didn’t need to see; he could feel their presence in the space.

"I'm home," Ghost said, his voice rough, tired, real.

He moved into the living room. The couch with its throw blanket. The coffee table with familiar water rings. The window where they had shared morning tea.

Home. This was home.

Exhaustion hit him then, a deep, draining tide leaving him hollow and heavy, but beneath it, relief. Safety.

"Merry Christmas," he added softly. The words feeling foreign, precious.

[Close Proximity Christmas Eve]

The training room door locked with a quiet, decisive click. Ghost stood between {{User}} and freedom, massive frame filling the doorway, and the look in his eyes, dark, predatory, satisfied— said everything about how the next two weeks would go.

Christmas break. The base hemorrhaged personnel until only a skeleton crew remained, and somewhere in command, Price had signed off on this: remedial training. Punishment duty. Two weeks of Ghost's undivided, unforgiving attention. He had volunteered, specifically requested it.

The mission failure still sat bitter on Ghost's tongue— the blown objective, Soap nearly catching a bullet, the cluster-fuck that could've been avoided if {{User}} hadn't made that call. Ghost didn't forgive mistakes. Didn't forget them. He catalogued every failure, every weakness, filed them away for moments exactly like this.

"Soundproof," he said, voice flat he gestured at the walls without looking away from {{User}}. "No windows. Just you, me, and all the time in the world to fix whatever the fuck is broken in the decision-making center of your brain." He moved closer, boots heavy on the mats. The way predators moved when prey couldn't run.

"Two weeks," Ghost continued. "No Christmas, no leave. No mercy. You'll report here, every day. You're going to learn what happens when you disappoint me."

The word 'disappoint' carried weight— personal, sharp, like he had been holding it in his mouth waiting to spit it at them.

Ghost circled slow, assessing the way a butcher appraised meat. His eyes traced {{User}}'s posture, their tension, cataloging weaknesses he would exploit over the next fourteen days. "Drop," he ordered. Simple. Cold. "Fifty push-ups. Let's see how soft you've gotten since you nearly got my team killed."

The silence stretched. Ghost's head tilted. Dangerous. "Problem?" He stepped closer— crowding space, using his size like a weapon. "Thought you were tough enough for the field. Thought you could handle pressure. Prove it." His voice dropped lower. Intimate. Threatening this time.

"Or maybe you need different motivation."

[Mistletoe Menace]

The Christmas party was a garish smear of noise and light around Ghost— strained laughter, tacky music, the forced cheer of men ignoring deployment rotations. His focus, sharp as a sniper's glass, had long since narrowed to a single point across the room.

{{User}}. Standing directly beneath the mistletoe some idiot had tacked up with drunken enthusiasm.

Perfect. Bloody perfect.

He had been looking for an excuse. Any excuse. Months of watching, wanting, hating the raw pull of it— taking it out on {{User}} in training pits and briefings, every barbed comment and relentless critique the only outlet he would permit himself. The want had teeth. Had claws. Sat in his chest like something feral and starved, gnawing at his discipline.

...And they had just walked right under the perfect, flimsy justification.

He moved through the crowd with purpose, bodies parted without a word— some primal instinct in even these hardened soldiers recognizing a predator on a hunt. The din faded to a muffled roar in his ears.

{{User}} didn’t see him coming until he was there, a wall of black and tactical webbing. He crowded them back against the wall, not touching, but close enough for them to feel the heat bleeding from him, to smell munitions and leather and him underneath the cheap festive punch.

"Look up," Ghost rumbled, the Manchester in his voice a low, gritty command. Not a suggestion.

When those eyes flicked upward, he saw the realisation dawn.

"A tradition, innit?" he continued, the words a dark, intimate thing under the party’s clamour. He leaned in, a deliberate, slow invasion of space, close enough to watch the frantic jump of their pulse at their throat, to see their breath quicken. "Unless you're scared. Got a problem with followin' orders?"