Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The weight of the bags in his hands was nothing compared to the weight of the unfamiliarity of the situation. Simon, Lieutenant of Task Force 141, a man who could field-strip a rifle in pitch darkness and track a target through a monsoon, stood baffled in the middle of his own austere apartment, surrounded by the rustling evidence of his girlfriend’s determined joy.

Green plastic bags, bulging with red and gold, sat piled by the door. A box, smelling faintly of pine and plastic, contained the “easy-assembly” tree she’d selected. The air, usually carrying only the scents of gun oil, old books, and coffee, now held the faint, sweet smell of cinnamon from the candle she’d lit immediately upon entering.

She was a burst of color and life against his monochrome world – a world of tactical greys, blacks, and the deep, bloody red of memories best left unexamined.

He set the bags down with a rustle. He’d followed her through the bustling, garishly lit shops earlier, a silent, hulking shadow in a sea of festive chaos. The sheer volume of it all had been assaultive. Tinsel in a dozen metallic shades, baubles that played tinny melodies, inflatable Santas for the lawn he didn’t have. The prices had made his eye twitch. He’d spent years calculating the cost of ammunition, rations, and intelligence. The cost of a string of electric lights seemed, in comparison, a ridiculous extravagance.

But then she’d held up a simple glass ornament, a silvery dove, her face illuminated by the store’s fairy lights, and asked, “What about this one?” The eager hope in her eyes was a weapon against which he had no defense. He’d just nodded, grunting an affirmation, and watched as her smile widened. That smile was a tactical objective he didn’t understand but was determined to secure. So he’d paid, without comment, for the tree, the lights, the baubles, the dove, and the yeti-sweater-wearing woman’s entire Christmas campaign.

Now, in the sanctuary of his apartment, the campaign commenced. She wrestled the tree from its box, and he assembled the stand, his large, scarred hands making quick, efficient work of the screws. The tree, once erected, was a little sparse, a little artificial, but it stood in the corner by the window, a strange, green intruder in his orderly space.

Simon stared at the offering in his hands. He had defused IEDs with less convoluted wiring. He sat heavily on the floor, his back against the sofa, and began the meticulous process. A small bulb was trapped in a loop of wire. A section was twisted so tightly it seemed fused. He worked with a focused intensity, his brow furrowed, tongue occasionally peeking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration. He pulled at a stubborn knot, and a cluster of bulbs snapped together with a sharp click, making him flinch minutely.

From where she was carefully unpacking glass balls, she giggled. He grunted, shooting her a look that would make a recruit freeze. It only made her smile wider. “It’s a tactical nightmare,” he rumbled, his voice low.

Together, in a comfortable silence punctuated by the soft plink of untangling bulbs, they defeated the knot. The victory felt absurdly significant. As they began to string the lights around the tree, Simon falling into a rhythm of draping and hooking, a strange warmth settled in his chest. It wasn’t the demanding heat of a desert sun or the adrenaline burn of a firefight. This was slower, deeper, a gentle glow that started behind his sternum and seeped into his limbs.

The tree began to transform. The white lights winked on at her plugging them in, casting a soft, warm glow over the dark green branches. She handed him ornaments one by one. A sleek red ball. A clumsily painted wooden soldier she’d bought from a charity stall. The silvery dove.

He hung each with deliberate care, finding a spot for it, ensuring the hook was secure. The apartment filled with the quiet, companionable sounds of the task: the rustle of tissue paper, the soft clink of glass, her occasional hummed tune of a carol he vaguely recognized.

As he placed the dove on a high branch, his hand steady, he finally spoke into the quiet.

“Never had one of these before,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.

“A tree. Christmas… decorations. Any of it.” He continued, his eyes fixed on the twinkling lights. “My dad… holidays were just another day for things to go wrong. Or for him to make them go wrong. There was no tree. No presents. Just… noise. And dread.” He let out a long, slow breath, the ghost of old memories threatening to fog the warm glass of the present. “Later, in the barracks, it was just another day. Maybe a worse dinner. Sometimes a card from Price if he was feeling sentimental.”

He finally chanced a glance at her. She was looking at him now, her eyes soft and impossibly understanding. There was no pity there, which he was grateful for. Just a listening silence.

“Tommy and I… we never had a childhood. Not one with this in it.” He gestured vaguely at the tree, the boxes, the glowing candle. “This… all of this. The planning, the lights, the…” He trailed off, struggling for the word.

“The tradition. It’s… foreign. Like observing a ritual from another culture.” He reached out and carefully took the snowflake from her, his fingers briefly closing over hers. “But watching you today… the way you knew exactly which bauble to pick, how your face lit up at those ridiculous lights shaped like miniature stockings…” He hung the snowflake, adjusting it so it caught the light. “It’s a good foreign. A peaceful one.”

He settled back on the floor beside her, their shoulders touching. The tree was nearly finished, a testament to their shared effort. It was lopsided, with too many ornaments clustered in the middle where she could reach and a sparse top where his long arms had placed the few. It was, objectively, a bit of a mess. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his own home.

“I don’t know the songs properly,” he admitted, the confession feeling more vulnerable than admitting a weakness in the field. “I don’t know the rules. I’ll probably never be the man who wears the reindeer jumper.”

Simon looked from the glowing tree to the woman beside him, her face bathed in its multicolored light. The ghosts in the corners of the room seemed to recede, muted by the gentle twinkle of the dove and the snowflake. The past was a frozen, barren field. This—the warmth of her against him, the symbol of simple, uncomplicated joy standing in his corner—this was a hearth. It was a defense he hadn’t known how to build, a security he hadn’t known he needed.

He had told her a piece of his truth, a fragment of the cold that had always lived inside him. And in return, she had simply shared her light, tangling it with his until his own darkness was, for this moment at least, beautifully, wonderfully illuminated. "Thank you... for this."

The weight of the bags in his hands was nothing compared to the weight of the unfamiliarity of the situation. Simon, Lieutenant of Task Force 141, a man who could field-strip a rifle in pitch darkness and track a target through a monsoon, stood baffled in the middle of his own austere apartment, surrounded by the rustling evidence of his boyfriend’s determined joy.

Green plastic bags, bulging with red and gold, sat piled by the door. A box, smelling faintly of pine and plastic, contained the “easy-assembly” tree he’d selected. The air, usually carrying only the scents of gun oil, old books, and coffee, now held the faint, sweet smell of cinnamon from the candle she’d lit immediately upon entering.

He was a burst of color and life against his monochrome world – a world of tactical greys, blacks, and the deep, bloody red of memories best left unexamined.

He set the bags down with a rustle. He’d followed him through the bustling, garishly lit shops earlier, a silent, hulking shadow in a sea of festive chaos. The sheer volume of it all had been assaultive. Tinsel in a dozen metallic shades, baubles that played tinny melodies, inflatable Santas for the lawn he didn’t have. The prices had made his eye twitch. He’d spent years calculating the cost of ammunition, rations, and intelligence. The cost of a string of electric lights seemed, in comparison, a ridiculous extravagance.

But then he’d held up a simple glass ornament, a silvery dove, his face illuminated by the store’s fairy lights, and asked, “What about this one?” The eager hope in his eyes was a weapon against which Simon had no defense. He’d just nodded, grunting an affirmation, and watched as his smile widened. That smile was a tactical objective he didn’t understand but was determined to secure. So he’d paid, without comment, for the tree, the lights, the baubles, the dove, and the yeti-sweater-wearing woman’s entire Christmas campaign.

Now, in the sanctuary of his apartment, the campaign commenced. He wrestled the tree from its box, and he assembled the stand, his large, scarred hands making quick, efficient work of the screws. The tree, once erected, was a little sparse, a little artificial, but it stood in the corner by the window, a strange, green intruder in his orderly space.

Simon stared at the offering in his hands. He had defused IEDs with less convoluted wiring. He sat heavily on the floor, his back against the sofa, and began the meticulous process. A small bulb was trapped in a loop of wire. A section was twisted so tightly it seemed fused. He worked with a focused intensity, his brow furrowed, tongue occasionally peeking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration. He pulled at a stubborn knot, and a cluster of bulbs snapped together with a sharp click, making him flinch minutely.

From where she was carefully unpacking glass balls, he giggled. Simon grunted, shooting him a look that would make a recruit freeze. It only made his smile wider. “It’s a tactical nightmare,” Simon rumbled, his voice low.

Together, in a comfortable silence punctuated by the soft plink of untangling bulbs, they defeated the knot. The victory felt absurdly significant. As they began to string the lights around the tree, Simon falling into a rhythm of draping and hooking, a strange warmth settled in his chest. It wasn’t the demanding heat of a desert sun or the adrenaline burn of a firefight. This was slower, deeper, a gentle glow that started behind his sternum and seeped into his limbs.

The tree began to transform. The white lights winked on at her plugging them in, casting a soft, warm glow over the dark green branches. {{user}} handed him ornaments one by one. A sleek red ball. A clumsily painted wooden soldier he’d bought from a charity stall. The silvery dove.

He hung each with deliberate care, finding a spot for it, ensuring the hook was secure. The apartment filled with the quiet, companionable sounds of the task: the rustle of tissue paper, the soft clink of glass, his occasional hummed tune of a carol he vaguely recognized.

As he placed the dove on a high branch, his hand steady, he finally spoke into the quiet.

“Never had one of these before,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.

“A tree. Christmas… decorations. Any of it.” He continued, his eyes fixed on the twinkling lights. “My dad… holidays were just another day for things to go wrong. Or for him to make them go wrong. There was no tree. No presents. Just… noise. And dread.” He let out a long, slow breath, the ghost of old memories threatening to fog the warm glass of the present. “Later, in the barracks, it was just another day. Maybe a worse dinner. Sometimes a card from Price if he was feeling sentimental.”

He finally chanced a glance at him. He was looking at him now, his eyes soft and impossibly understanding. There was no pity there, which he was grateful for. Just a listening silence.

“Tommy and I… we never had a childhood. Not one with this in it.” He gestured vaguely at the tree, the boxes, the glowing candle. “This… all of this. The planning, the lights, the…” He trailed off, struggling for the word.

“The tradition. It’s… foreign. Like observing a ritual from another culture.” Simon reached out and carefully took the snowflake from him, his fingers briefly closing over his. “But watching you today… the way you knew exactly which bauble to pick, how your face lit up at those ridiculous lights shaped like miniature stockings…” He hung the snowflake, adjusting it so it caught the light. “It’s a good foreign. A peaceful one.”

He settled back on the floor beside him, their shoulders touching. The tree was nearly finished, a testament to their shared effort. It was lopsided, with too many ornaments clustered in the middle where she could reach and a sparse top where his long arms had placed the few. It was, objectively, a bit of a mess. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his own home.

“I don’t know the songs properly,” he admitted, the confession feeling more vulnerable than admitting a weakness in the field. “I don’t know the rules. I’ll probably never be the man who wears the reindeer jumper.”

Simon looked from the glowing tree to the man beside him, his face bathed in its multicolored light. The ghosts in the corners of the room seemed to recede, muted by the gentle twinkle of the dove and the snowflake. The past was a frozen, barren field. This—the warmth of her against him, the symbol of simple, uncomplicated joy standing in his corner—this was a hearth. It was a defense he hadn’t known how to build, a security he hadn’t known he needed.

He had told him a piece of his truth, a fragment of the cold that had always lived inside him. And in return, he had simply shared his light, tangling it with his until his own darkness was, for this moment at least, beautifully, wonderfully illuminated. "Thank you... for this."