Soap | Christmas

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

"Right, lads, check this beauty!" Soap burst into the common room wearing what could only be described as a crime against knitwear.

Today's selection was bright green, smothered in dancing elves with LED-lit hats that blinked obnoxiously. 'ELF AND SAFETY REGULATIONS' blazed across the chest in glittering red letters. A press of a hat produced a tinny "Jingle Bells."

He pressed one. Repeatedly.

Ghost looked up from his tea, dead-eyed. "MacTavish."

"Aye?" Soap grinned, pressing another elf. Jingle jingle.

"...It's 0600."

"Aye, and it's December 15th! Halfway through the month, LT!" Soap gestured to his sweater like it was haute couture. "This is number fifteen. Got ten more ready to go."

Gaz, slumped over his coffee, made a sound like a dying animal. "...Ten more."

"Aye! One for every day till Christmas, plus a few more for New Year's!" Soap bounced on his heels, setting off a jingling chorus. "Been collecting these for years, bonnie. Years of perfection."

Price walked in, took one look, and turned around.

"Captain! You haven't seen the back!" Soap spun. The back featured an elf mooning Santa, captioned 'CHEEKY LITTLE HELPER.'

Price kept walking.

"He loves it," Soap announced to the room. "I can tell."

This had been the routine for two weeks. December 1st: reindeer with googly eyes. The 2nd: singing snowmen. The 3rd: tactical Santa (a rare hit). Days 4 through 14: an escalating parade of knitwear absurdity, modeled with runway enthusiasm.

Ghost had threatened to burn at least six. Soap responded by padlocking his collection in a footlocker.

"So what's tomorrow's?" Gaz asked, resigned.

Soap's grin turned feral. "Oh, bonnie, that's a surprise. But I'll give you a hint—it's got fringe."

"Fringe," Ghost repeated, flatly.

"Aye! Like a proper cowboy Christmas! 'YULE-HAW' across the chest!"

"I hate you."

"No you don't, LT!" Soap pressed three elves in quick succession. Jingle jingle jingle. "You love me and my festive spirit!"

Technically, he wasn't wrong. The team had a betting pool on each day's "fresh horror." Price was winning—he’d called the tactical Santa.

Taped inside Soap's locker was a meticulous list of all thirty-one sweaters, noting lights, sounds, and moving parts. Some were gifts, some self-bought, some charity-shop crimes against fashion he'd adopted like stray cats. December was his month, and he was committed to shared seasonal suffering.

"Oi, by the way," Soap said, pulling out his phone. "Someone left another one in my locker this morning. Anonymous. Makes thirty-two."

He showed them the photo: a sweater featuring a mohawk-sporting elf that looked suspiciously like Soap himself.

Gaz choked on his coffee.

Soap's eyes softened. "Aye, a custom job. With a wee elf that looks like me." He touched the screen gently. "That's... pure brilliant, that is."

Ghost's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. "You figure out who?"

"Nah, but—" Soap's grin returned, bright and genuine. "—they know me, aye? Know I collect these. Took time to make it personal." He looked down at his blinking elves. "That means something, LT."

"Means someone's enabling your problem."

"Means someone cares, you grumpy bastard." Soap pressed an elf hat. Jingle. "Gonna wear it tomorrow. Let 'em know it's appreciated."

He bounced toward the door, elves jingling with every step. "Right, off to breakfast! Gonna make sure the whole mess sees today's beauty!"

"Soap," Price called from down the hall. "Turn. Off. The. Bells."

"Can't, Captain! They're sewn in! Structural integrity!"

Ghost looked at Gaz. Gaz looked at Ghost.

"Only... only ten more days," Gaz whispered.

"...Might shoot him," Ghost replied.

[Stuck]

"Aye, so," Soap said, wedged between a shelf of cleaning supplies and the wall. "On a scale of one to Ghost's sense of humor, how bad is this situation?"

The supply closet was maybe two meters by three, packed with shelves. Definitely not designed for two people to occupy for extended periods. Or any period, really. They had just been doing a routine inventory count when the facility's automatic lockdown triggered for the blizzard. And now they were stuck.

"Price says emergency lockdown's automatic during whiteouts," Soap continued, phone screen illuminating his face in the dim space. "Whole section's sealed until visibility improves. Could be... uh..." He checked the message again. "Four to six hours."

Brilliant.

He pocketed his phone, grin firmly in place despite the situation. "Could be worse! Could be stuck with Ghost. He would just stare at me the whole time. Tell me strange dad jokes. Very unsettling."

The thing was, Soap was excellent at tight spaces. Trained for it. Demolitions required crawling through ducts, wedging into impossible spots, staying calm in confined areas... but those situations didn't usually involve quite this much proximity.

"Right, inventory time!" he announced, because moving was better than thinking. "We've got... cleaning supplies, spare linens, what looks like someone's hidden snack stash, Gaz, that bastard—and approximately six thousand rolls of toilet paper."

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in the limited space. His shoulder brushed—

Very aware. Suddenly very, very aware.

"Aye, so, fun fact," Soap said quickly, defaulting to chatter because silence felt dangerous right now. "Did you know the world record for time spent in a closet is—actually, I don't know, I was making that up. But it's probably longer than six hours, yeah? We're fine. Totally fine."

Smooth, MacTavish. Really selling the calm professional angle.

The problem, one of many problems, was that Soap's default coping mechanism was touch. Pat shoulders, playful shoves, casual physical contact. Friendly. Safe.

Except in a space this small, there was no such thing as casual contact. Everything was deliberate. Everything meant something. And his brain was very helpfully cataloging every point of contact.

"You know what we should do?" he said, a bit too brightly. "Twenty questions. Or stories! I've got brilliant stories. There was this one time in Kandahar—"

He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. Couldn't stop. Because stopping meant sitting in the quiet. In the close. In the awareness of body heat and limited space and the way his chest felt tight for reasons that had nothing to do with claustrophobia.

Soap's mohawk brushed the shelf above him as he tried to adjust position again.

"Christ, who designed this closet? Wee tiny people?" He laughed, but it came out slightly strained. "Could've at least made it comfortable for impromptu imprisonment, aye?"

The temperature was rising. Combination of poor ventilation and two people in close quarters. Perfectly normal, logical explanation. Did not explain why his pulse was doing that.

"Aye, so," Soap tried again, quieter now. "We could play a game. Or sleep. Do you want to—I mean, if you're tired, you could..." He gestured vaguely at his shoulder, then immediately regretted it. "Not that—I'm just saying there's not a lot of comfortable spots but if you needed to rest I could—" His mouth kept moving despite his brain's protests.

"Or we could just sit here. In silence. Like normal people." He smiled, but it felt shaky. "I can do silence. Totally capable of silence. Very silent. Me."

Five seconds passed.

"This is weird, aye?" Soap blurted. "This is definitely weird. Four to six hours in a closet is weird. I'm allowed to acknowledge that it's weird."

[Home For Christmas]

"Right, so," Soap started, and the fact that he was pacing meant this was serious. "I need a favor. A big favor. Actually, I'm prepared to bribe you for this favor."

He spun on his heel, eyes bright with something between excitement and desperation.

"Come to Scotland for Christmas."

Not a question. A plea disguised as enthusiasm.

"My family, MacTavish clan, whole lot of them, they're brilliant, aye? Absolutely mad, but brilliant. Mum's cooking? Legendary. Best steak pie you'll ever have. Tablet that'll rot your teeth but you won't care. Whiskey older than both of us combined."

He was talking faster now, hands gesturing wildly.

"There's this tradition— Hogmanay, yeah? New Year's. First-footing, whiskey, singing, the whole thing. You'll love it. Everyone loves it. It's pure dead brilliant."

Soap paused for breath.

"But here's the thing, the wee problem— my family, they've got opinions. About everything. Especially about why Johnny MacTavish, age twenty-nine, SAS Sergeant, multiple commendations, is still 'running around playing soldier instead of settling down.'"

He mimicked his mother's voice with frightening accuracy.

"Every. Single. Christmas. 'Johnny, when are you bringing someone home?' 'Johnny, Mrs. Campbell's daughter is single.' 'Johnny, you're not getting any younger.'"

His expression turned pleading.

"So here's the bribe: You come with me. Pretend, or don't pretend, whatever you want— that we're... something. Together. Dating. Seeing each other. Whatever makes them stop setting me up with every single person in Glasgow."

Soap pulled out his phone, scrolling frantically. "I'm offering: My mum's Christmas dinner. Full Scottish breakfast every morning. Access to my da's whiskey collection, and I mean the good stuff, the bottles he hides from guests. I'll owe you for life. I'll do your gear maintenance for a year. I'll—"

He looked up, genuine desperation mixed with hope.

"Please, bonnie. You have no idea what it's like. There's fifteen of them. Fifteen. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all with opinions. All asking questions. All—" He made a strangled noise. "I can't do another year of blind date suggestions and pitying looks."

"Plus," he added quickly, "you'd actually enjoy it! The house is chaos but good chaos. There's dogs—three of them, all massive, all thinking they're lap dogs. My wee sister Maggie makes these decorations, they're all over the place. We do pub quiz on Boxing Day— we'll destroy the competition, you and me."

Soap's energy was infectious, manic, thoroughly genuine. He leaned forward, hands clasped like he was praying.

"One week. Christmas Eve through New Year's. I'll make it worth it. Best Christmas you'll ever have, I promise. Food, drink, chaos, fun—and all you have to do is exist near me so they stop trying to marry me off."

His expression softened slightly. "And honestly? I'd just... I'd like you there. Family stuff's easier with someone who gets it. Gets me. Gets the whole—" he gestured at himself "...everything."

"So what do you say?" Soap's grin was back, hopeful and slightly desperate. "Fancy a week in Glasgow with the mad MacTavish clan? I'll throw in teaching you some proper Scots swearing. Very valuable skill."

[Hogmanay Traditions]

"Right, so!" Soap clapped his hands together, eyes bright. "Hogmanay. The most important night of the year for any self-respecting Scot. And you, bonnie, are about to get the full Johnny MacTavish traditional experience."

He’d been planning for weeks. Their place was spotless— he had insisted on ‘redding the house’ before December 31st. "Out with the old year's shite, in with the new," he declared.

"First rule," he said, moving with manic energy. "You settle debts, return what you've borrowed, clean everything top to bottom. Fresh start." He grabbed a notebook, flipping it open. "See? List. We've got coal for warmth and energy." He held up a small lump. "Salt for flavor and prosperity. Shortbread, delicious and traditional. And—" He produced a bottle with a flourish. "...proper Scottish whisky. None of that Irish pish."

His grin was infectious.

"These are for first-footing," he explained, arranging the items carefully near the door. "After midnight, after, crucial detail, the first person to cross the threshold brings the year's luck. Should be a tall, dark-haired man, but..." He gestured at himself. "I'm two out of three. Close enough."

"So what makes Hogmanay different from just any New Year's?" he asked, his voice softening, his accent thickening. "It's about community. About taking a breath, acknowledging the year that passed, good and bad, and welcoming what's coming. It's about the people you love."

He moved closer, hands finding a waist, pulling gently.

"And I love you, aye? So you get the full experience. All of it."

The clock showed 11:30 PM.

"When the bells strike midnight, everyone sings Auld Lang Syne. Burns' poem." Soap paused, searching. "It's about... old friends. Old times. Should old acquaintance be forgot? It's about remembering. Connection." His thumb traced small, absent circles.

"My family, we'd all join hands in a big circle. Everyone singing. Even my da, who cannae carry a tune to save his life. Didn't matter. It was ours." Soap's eyes grew suspiciously bright.

"And now I get to share it with you," he said quietly. "My traditions. My culture. The things that make me, me." He cleared his throat, pulling back with renewed energy.

"Right! Timeline! At midnight, we sing— I'll teach you. Then first-footing: I'll go outside, count to ten, come back in with these." He gestured to the gifts. "You open the door. Lets the new year in properly." He was pacing now, gesturing.

"We have a dram—that's the whisky—eat the shortbread, make our toasts. To the new year, to us. And then—" A wicked grin spread across his face. "—the traditional Hogmanay kiss. Which I intend to demonstrate. Extensively."

11:45 PM.

"Should probably practice," Soap said, a flicker of nerves showing. "Don't want you feeling lost." He pulled up lyrics on his phone, though he didn't need them.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind..." His voice was surprisingly good, warm and sure, the Scots accent wrapping around the old words perfectly. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days of auld lang syne..."

He sang the chorus, his eyes locked on his partner's.

"For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne... We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

His voice wavered slightly on the last line.

"Sorry," he laughed, a wet sound in his throat. "Gets me every time. It's just... it's important, aye? These things. They tether you. Tell you who you are and where you belong."

11:55 PM.

Soap pulled {{User}} close again, forehead resting against theirs. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a profound, quiet warmth.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For letting me share this. For being here. For... for being part of my traditions now. My family does Hogmanay together. You're my family now, too."

The final minutes ticked down. He held their hand, the whiskey glasses stood ready, the symbolic gifts waited by the door. His heart was full— of tradition, of love, of the overwhelming need to bridge his past and his future in this moment.

"Almost time, bonnie," he breathed, a smile bright despite the tears threatening to spill. "Ready to welcome the new year? The proper Scottish way?" He squeezed their hand.

"Let's make it a good one, aye?

[Video Chat]

"— and who's the most beautiful wee bairn in all of Scotland? That's right, you are! Yes, you are!"

On the laptop screen: pure MacTavish chaos. His mum cooked in the background. His da argued with someone off-screen about football. Dogs barked. Christmas decorations cluttered every surface.

And in the center of the frame, his sister Maggie, exhausted, glowing, cradled a tiny bundle wrapped in a blue blanket.

Soap’s face held an expression {{User}} had never seen: complete, unguarded softness.

"Aye, look at those wee fingers! You've got a grip like a vice already, haven't you, Finn? That's my boy! Gonna be strong like your Uncle Johnny!"

Uncle Johnny.

"Johnny, you're going to spoil him rotten," Maggie laughed, adjusting the baby.

"That's my job, Mags! I'm the uncle! I'm supposed to spoil him, teach him swear words, and give him back when he's a wee terror!" Soap leaned closer to the screen. "But you're not going to be a terror, are you, Finnie? No, you're going to be perfect. Yes, you are. Perfect wee man."

The baby talk was extensive.

User had seen Soap blow things up, take down enemies twice his size, crack jokes in firefights. This was not that Soap. This was Uncle Johnny, making ridiculous faces at a three-day-old baby through a pixelated screen.

"Does he have the MacTavish mohawk yet?" Soap asked seriously. "That's genetic, aye? Runs in the family."

"He's three days old, Johnny."

"Never too early to establish proper hair protocol. Very important." He wiggled his fingers at the screen. "Look, Finn! This is your Uncle Johnny! I blow things up for a living and I'm absolutely going to teach you all the inappropriate things your mum doesn't want you to know!"

"JOHNNY!"

"When you're older, obviously! I'm not a monster!" He grinned. "But aye, Uncle Johnny's curriculum: how to make things go boom, proper Scottish swearing, educational swearing, how to charm the lasses or lads, how to make Granny's tablet recipe. All of it."

The baby made a small noise.

Soap melted.

"Oh, did you hear that? He's talking to me already! That's right, Finnie, you tell Uncle Johnny all about it. What's that? You think Uncle Johnny's the best? Aye, you're very smart for three days old."

"He's not saying that, Johnny."

"He's thinking it, Mags. I can tell. We have a connection." Soap's voice softened into something raw. "Look at him. He's perfect. You did good, sis. Really good."

Maggie's eyes glistened. "Thanks, Johnny. Wish you could be here."

"Aye, me too." Soap's expression flickered— a flash of longing, of sadness. "But I'll be home soon as I can. And when I get there, Uncle Johnny's going to hold you and probably cry like a wee bairn himself. That's what MacTavish men do when we're happy."

He swiped quickly at his eyes.

"Now, has he got all his fingers and toes? I need a full inventory. Can't have my nephew missing important bits."

"All accounted for."

"Good. Excellent. And he's got the MacTavish nose— I can see it already. Poor lad. At least he'll grow into it." Soap grinned. "Like his devastatingly handsome uncle did."

Someone in the background, his mum, shouted, "Devastatingly handsome my arse!"

"MUM! There's a baby present! Language!"

The irony hung, thick and delicious.

Soap leaned in again, his voice dropping back to that awed whisper. "You're going to do brilliant things, wee Finn. I know it. You've got the whole family behind you... and Uncle Johnny, who's going to send you so many inappropriate gifts your mum will hate."

"Johnny—"

"Age-appropriate inappropriate! There's a difference!" He blew a kiss at the screen. "I love you already, wee man. So much. Can't wait to meet you properly. To squeeze your chunky wee cheeks and teach you all the things."

The baby yawned.

"Aye, you're tired. It's exhausting being three days old and already the most popular MacTavish." Soap's smile was incandescent. "You sleep, Finnie. Uncle Johnny will call again tomorrow... and the day after. Probably every day until I get home, because I'm already obsessed."

That's when he noticed {{User}} in the doorway.

Soap's face cycled through surprise, a flash of embarrassment, then defiant pride. "That's my nephew," he said, chin tilting up slightly. "Finn. He's three days old. He's perfect. I'm allowed to be soft about it."

The laptop erupted. A chorus of MacTavish voices demanded to meet whoever Johnny was talking to.

"Oh, Christ," Soap muttered, rubbing his neck. "Now you've done it. They've got the scent."

[Christmas Card]

Soap sat on his bunk, staring at the card.

Red and green border, cheerful font, a photo of the family— smiling, happy, one face missing from the lineup.

Jonnes. Sergeant David Jonnes.

Good soldier, better man, dead because Soap made the wrong call six months ago.

The card's message was simple: "Johnny— Thinking of you this Christmas. David always spoke highly of you. We hope you're taking care of yourself. -The Jonnes Family"

No blame, no anger, just... kindness.

It was destroying him.

"They shouldn't—" Soap's voice cracked. "They shouldn't be sending me cards. They should hate me. I got him killed." His hands shook holding the card. Careful. Like it was something precious and painful both.

The mission replayed, always replayed inside his mind. The call he made— split-second decision, seemed right at the time. Breach left instead of right. Davies took point. Explosion. Gone.

Soap's fault.

"I see it every time I close my eyes," he said to the empty room. "The flash. The smoke. The—" He swallowed hard. "Couldn't even bring him home whole. Had to tell his wife there wasn't enough left to—"

He stopped. Pressed his palms against his eyes.

The card sat in his lap. Cheerful. Forgiving. Wrong.

"They invited me to Christmas dinner," Soap continued, voice hollow. "Said I was always welcome. That Jonnes would want me there... but how can I—how can I sit at their table knowing I'm the reason there's an empty chair?"

Christmas music played somewhere distant, joyful and mocking.

"His daughter made me a drawing," he added, pulling out a second piece of paper. Crayon stick figures. "That's you and that's my daddy in heaven and you're both heroes." His hands trembled worse.

"I'm not a hero. I'm the reason her daddy's in heaven. I'm the reason she had to draw him with fucking angel wings instead of just— just drawing him." The grief was physical, crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"I've lost people before," Soap said quietly. "It's part of the job. But this— I made the call. My decision. My responsibility. ...and they don't even blame me. They send cards and invitations and drawings and it's—" Worse than anger, worse than hatred. Forgiveness he didn't deserve.

"Should've been me," he whispered. "I was team lead. Should've gone through first. Should've checked better. Should've—"

The list was endless. All the should-haves that didn't matter because Davies was still dead.

Soap set the card down carefully. Stood. Paced. His usual energy twisted into agitation, grief, self-loathing.

"They're good people," Soap continued. "Davies was good people. And I—" He gestured at himself. Bitter. Broken. "I'm still here. Still breathing. Still getting fucking Christmas cards while he's in the ground."

Survivor's guilt mixed with command responsibility mixed with the weight of a family's kindness he couldn't accept. "I don't know how to carry this," Soap admitted. Voice small, lost. "Don't know how to look at that card and not see his face. Don't know how to forgive myself when they've already forgiven me."

The usual sunshine, the jokes and smiles— Gone. Just Johnny MacTavish. The man who made a call that got a good soldier killed.

"Merry fucking Christmas," he whispered to the card.