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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 can 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 before 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 held a huge quantity of tea which meant he didn’t have to leave his desk as often and something about the way the handle fit his entire hand was very 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, his eyes fall closed, his muscles loosen slightly.
“Don’t suppose there’s any Christmas decs around here is there Cap?”
Price 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 moment and it’s better than kicking around bored out of his mind on leave like they usually spend Christmas.
However, it means they’re tasked with jobs that are lower priority and usually handed off before they get to it. Like inventory. Soap fucking hates inventory.
“Alright Tav?” Gaz strolls in, making a beeline for the kettle.
Soap shoots him a grimace.
“That bad?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at him “coffee?”
Hands clasped in front of his face he closes his eyes, “I’d owe you me life.”
Gaz laughs, “reckon you owe me that anyway.”
“Get t’ fuck,” Soap replies, eyes drifting back to the list.
Moving over to the table Gaz places a mug down. “Mind if I sit?”
Soap shoots him a look, “why would I mind ye weirdo?”
“Just don’t want distract you mate” Gaz shrugs.
Sliding the list down the table Soap slams his hands onto the surface, “Gaz, am beggin ya. Please fucking distract me.”
The other man’s face splits into a grin and he reaches into his pockets. Sitting down opposite him 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 for 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 before Gaz continues, “I’ll do inventory.”
“Let’s fucking go.”
The first few minutes are a mad flurry, Soap deciding to open all of the packets and lay them out on the table. Gaz opts for 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 last.
Keeping an eye on Gaz he feels satisfaction starting to build, the man is barely through his third packet whilst Soap is nearly through all his piles. His pace picks up and he nears the ends, fingertips slightly sore from the repeated rubbing of the paper against them.
Looping the final strip round and sticking it down he releases it and lifts his arms up in victory.
“Witness my glory!” He brags, shooting a shit-eating grin at Gaz.
The other man sighs, releasing his own paper chain, raising his palms. “Too quick for me this time Tav. Makes a change.”
Soap scoffs, “you wish.”
Stretching out his shoulders Soap watches as Gaz starts collecting up the remaining packets. He frowns at him.
“You’re not gunna finish them all?” he asks.
Gaz shakes his head, “nah think there should be enough if we connect both of ours together.”
Bending under the table Soap finds the end of the chain Gaz had been working on and joins them together. It’s a satisfying sight, the different colours interlinked. He starts pulling it towards him and sees it snaking out across the breakroom floor.
“Christ Gaz, this could reach the fucking arctic,” he
“All you, Tav.” Gaz smirks at him.
Soap studies him, the subtle smugness radiating from him. Oh the prick.
“Ye fucking planned it that way didn’t ye?” He asks.
Gaz leans down and begins gathering the chain into his arms. “Dunno what you mean mate.”
Soap huffs but stays silent. He’s been played expertly, and he can’t help but feel impressed, pissed, but fucking impressed.
“Thanks for the help pal.” Gaz pats him on the shoulder on his way out.
It’s a good job Soap has nothing to throw or it would be launched straight at Gaz’s head. Sly git.
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 does look kind of nice, he has to admit.
It seems the decoration doesn’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 are 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?
“No, it’s fine” he mutters.
Slightly dazed, Ghost finds himself looking for the perfect branches to place the baubles on.
At least it’s quiet. Johnny has been humming Last Christmas for the past week and Ghost has very nearly murdered him several times for getting 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.
He flicks his eyes to said man. There’s a relaxed ease to his face that Ghost has 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.
“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.
“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 shoots Ghost a soft 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 adjusts the tinsel. “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 but 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 find where he slipped up. Eventually the pile of decorations diminishes. The end is in sight.
Rummaging around in 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, “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 looks at him so earnestly. “Besides, tradition is the oldest does it, so get on with it old man.”
Gaz forces the angel into his hand with a smirk and steps away, sweeping an arm towards the tree. 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 that 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 asks.
“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 and he’d still woken up at eight. Which is still a lay in from 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 sitting cross legged on the floor just in front. All of them in various states of consciousness and dress.
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 catches Price’s eye which nearly sends him over the edge again, the man smirks at him, eyes twinkling. Old fucker. He tilts his head towards the tree, “go on lad, your idea, you do the work.”
Folding down onto the floor he bumps his shoulder into Tavs before scootching closer to the tree, a small pile of presents stacked neatly underneath. He flips the tags over, amused as always by the difference in handwriting between the three. Wait.
“Hang on, there’s three here addressed to me?”
“You must have been on Santa’s nice list.” Soap grins. Price hides his smile behind his mug.
Confused and a little suspicious he sets the ones for him 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 booted foot, “get on with it then.”
Selecting the closest one Gaz rips open the wrapping paper and a camouflage patterned scarf slides 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 lightly dusted 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 belter, thanks Tav,” Gaz grins.
Soap beams back at him, “nae bother.”
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.
Reaching in he takes out the contents and sits it in his palm, admiring the weight of it. It’s a small, carved wooden bear.
The wood is dark and shiny, the surface highly polished. Leaning closer Gaz can see the details around the eyes and the paws, each toe defined. Rotating it in his hand he’s awed by craftsmanship that’s 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. The golden-brown biscuits are snowflake shaped, all iced with pin straight lines which form 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 before leaving a deep syrupy aftertaste. “Bloody hell LT, these are delicious!”
“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 grunts.
Gaz slaps away Soaps encroaching hand and replaces the lid as he finishes the biscuit. Dusting his hands off he claps them together.
“You lot now,” he grins.
Gaz watches them open their presents (Price gets a new hat, Soap a hair trimmer and Ghost a wicked looking flip knife) and feels a warmth spreading in his chest.
Honestly, there’s nowhere he’d rather be.