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30th November
"It's– well, just open it and see," Soap says, feeling the hint of a blush creep up his neck. The urge to twist his toe into the concrete floor is stronger than it should be. But who can blame him for that, really? Time has managed to dampen the thrill of jumping out of aeroplanes and sneaking up on the enemy, but hasn't yet been able to quell his anxieties around one Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.
Ghost says nothing as he tears off the Christmas-themed wrapping paper, remnant glitter raining onto the floor as he does. When the paper is discarded, he holds the box in both hands to read it.
"It's an advent calendar," Soap explains, cursing his habit of word-vomiting when nerves get the best of him. "So you can try a different tea every day 'til–"
"'Til Christmas day, I know," Ghost interrupts. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a small smile. "Thanks, Johnny." He flips the box over, reading details of the different tea samples within. "You'll have to join me for a cuppa."
"Ah, only enough for one a day in there, I'm afraid," Soap says. Not that he likes tea, anyway – coffee is more his style. "But tell me how they are, yeah?"
Soap had agonised over which one to get him. The black tea sampler? Herbals? Decaf? Sleepytime teas? The options had made his head spin. Ultimately, he went with a variety pack, a mix of teas from all over the world, in hopes Ghost would find at least one he liked.
Ghost hums his acceptance, and the two part ways, Soap with his steps a little lighter than usual.
1st December
The next morning Soap is ahead of the game: showered, dressed, and ready to head to drills before the start time, when he opens the door to find a mysterious, unmarked Christmas-themed package sitting outside of his room.
"What the fuck…" escapes in a small mutter.
He brings it inside to take a good look. It's a bit dinged up, with the wrapping torn at one corner like it's just survived an arduous journey through the postal system. A gift from his mam maybe? That wouldn't be too unusual this time of year, but the fact that the package was at his doorstep and not waiting for him at the mailroom is suspicious, to say the least.
He peels the wrapping back gingerly to reveal a box suspiciously similar to the one he'd gifted Ghost the day before, this one boasting Twenty-four Days of Curated Coffee inside.
A handwritten note escapes from the paper, which he catches in midair:
I take my tea at 2100.
Don't be late.
Soap, funnily enough, ends up late for drills.
Soap is early, it's true. Nerves get the best of him.
But more importantly: Ghost, the hypocritical bastard, is nowhere to be found at ten past nine o'clock.
Probably just held up somewhere, he reasons, playing with the empty packet in his hands as the first sample brews in the communal coffee maker. He scrunches it up, smooths it out on the counter, folds and unfolds and re-folds it before he hears the unmistakable footsteps of Ghost approaching from the corridor.
"Don't be late," Soap mocks, the quip halfway out of his mouth before Ghost even has both feet in the tiny kitchen. He pours himself the single cup he's made and leans back against the counter, attempting to stab Simon with his gaze.
Ghost almost seems surprised to see him there, although not unpleasantly so. "Didn't think you'd show, honestly," he confirms. "And especially not with – what is that, the extra caffeinated one? – at fucking nine at night."
Soap takes a bold sip of the brew in mock offence. It's a dark roast from Somalia that boasts 'a buttery mouthfeel and hints of toffee,' not that he can really discern either, if he's honest.
"First of all, it's not like I chose. It's an advent calendar, not a buffet," Soap defends his choice with another defiant sip. "Secondly, I don't stand up my dates."
Ghost, the fucker, laughs as he flicks the kettle on to make his tea. "Lucky me," he says. "Didn't know Johnny MacTavish was a softie."
"Not a softie, just not rude. You invited me. I came." The words come out more seriously than he intends. Ghost's hand stills on the kettle.
Soap clears his throat. "So– what did Ghost get in his wee calendar today?" he asks, hoping to lighten the mood. It works; Ghost turns from the kettle and pulls a single-wrapped tea bag from his pocket.
"Starting off with some peppermint. Decaf, luckily. Won't be wired to hell'n back all night like you."
"I won't," Soap stares at Simon over the rim of his mug before taking another sip. He watches with quiet interest as the other man makes his tea: a couple minutes of steeping, a splash of milk, a stir with a teaspoon. Simple enough.
Ghost lifts his cup in mock cheers, downs the scalding drink in one go, and puts it in the sink.
"See you tomorrow evening, then," he says, leaving the room as Johnny looks on, coffee half drunk, stupefied.
2nd December
Soap is so dead-to-the-world tired the next day, his afternoon catnap nearly turns into an all-night affair.
"Told you so," it's Ghost's turn to quip now, as Soap meanders into the kitchen at 2110.
"Aye, shut it, you bastard," Soap grumbles.
"Let me guess. Couldn't sleep last night?"
Soap ignores him and makes his coffee in silence. It's been a busier day than usual and, combined with the sleepless night, Johnny feels like he's been put through the wringer ten times over. Needy recruits, needier COs. Mountains of paperwork and training and sparring and–
"Decaf?" Ghost asks when he slides into the seat across from him at the tiny table, freeing him from the ruminations of his mind.
Soap nods.
"Good."
He gestures to Ghost's mug with his own. "Anything good?"
"S'okay."
The two sit in companionable silence with Ghost actually taking care to sip his tea with Johnny this time. Soap can barely hold his head up or keep his eyes open. Still, it's somehow the best he's felt all day: the coffee warming his insides, and Ghost not asking a goddamn thing from him. Nothing but his presence is required, here.
And on days like today, that's… nice.
5th December
They don't spend every evening together sipping their hot drinks of choice. That would be… that would be too much. Wouldn't it? So over the next couple of days, Soap saves his coffee for the morning, luckily ending up with a couple caffeinated varieties to replace the standard drip they get on base.
Eventually, though, Soap relents. He has to know how Ghost's liking his teas so far, has to know which ones he's tried. If only to have some kind of baseline for what Ghost prefers. For a future gift, maybe. For Ghost's birthday, whenever that is.
Johnny's face scrunches.
…When is Ghost's birthday?
"When's your birthday?" he blurts out as he enters the kitchen at seven minutes past nine, catching Ghost stirring milk into his tea.
"Punctual as always, I see," Ghost says without looking up.
"Don't ignore the question." What was never more than a passing curiosity is now a burning question that needs answering.
"Don't do birthdays." Ghost taps his teaspoon on the edge of the cup. It's a light, tinkling sound, both calming and bright.
Soap frowns. "That's stupid. "What, think you're too old or somethin'?"
"Bloody hell, no. How old do you think I am, Sergeant?" Ghost asks with mock offence, leaning back against the counter and giving Soap a level stare as he watches him make his coffee. The hairs on Soap's arms prickle at the intensity in those eyes. Steady, but not serious.
"Forty-five, maybe fifty?" Soap suppresses a sly grin and gets a light punch to the shoulder for his cheek. "Ah, sore spot, I see." Ghost punches him again and with twice the force, but doesn't move out of his personal space this time. Rather, he leans over Johnny's shoulder to peek at the packet he's torn open at the counter, a steadying hand landing lightly at his hip.
"What'd you get tonight?"
"Dunno. Looks posh, though," Soap says, indicating the fancy scrawl.
"Mm. I should have known the good stuff would be wasted on you, MacTavish."
Soap turns his head to snap back and shit, Ghost is right there isn't he, looking over his shoulder, close enough to kiss. He startles, sending coffee grounds flying into the air and spilling onto the counter, the floor, and over the both of them.
Neither moves for a beat.
Simon's absolutely covered in the stuff, blonde hair dotted with dark brown. It paints his cheeks like newly sprouted freckles, sits on his shoulders like some odd inverse of snow.
Soap bites his lip to push down the giddy, inappropriate burst of laughter that threatens to bubble up. He reaches up to tousle Simon's hair, releasing a flurry of grounds into the air around them both.
Ghost, finally, speaks up: "Like I said. Wasted."
Johnny doesn't get to drink his coffee that night, and he certainly doesn't get a kiss, but he does get to beat Simon over the head with the empty packet of grounds, gets to catch Ghost's wrists in his hands before he lands a retaliatory punch, gets to wrestle with him for a brief moment before they break, both too suspiciously breathless after such a short tussle, and that's got to count for something.
6th December
His evening decaf warms him from the inside, and it’s a welcome comfort especially with the recent cold snap that's developed. Ghost sits across from Soap, in the seat that's become his now, and sips quietly at something lemon-scented while reading a book.
Soap takes a swig of his coffee and rolls it around on his tongue, trying to pick it apart. He's come to appreciate a few of the more obvious subtleties in aroma and taste — at least, he thinks so. Words like acidity and body and, dammit, even mouthfeel start to acquire more meaning as he attempts to pair the words with what's happening to his tastebuds.
There may be something to this whole mouthfeel thing, after all, he considers. A contemplative "huh" escapes him at the thought.
"Don't hurt yourself there," Ghost deadpans. "Wouldn't want you out of commission before we're shipped out next week."
Soap gives his forearm a light tap with the back of his knuckles.
"Oi, you're warm, you know that?" Soap says. He’s been gripping his mug to keep his fingers from freezing off, subsisting on the residual heat from his coffee. But Ghost radiates body heat that's too inviting to ignore. Soap grabs at Ghost's arm with both freezing hands.
"And you're a fuckin' icebox, bloody hell, Johnny!" Ghost nearly spills his tea as he recoils from the icy shock.
Soap doesn't relent, though, going back for more warmth, clinging to Ghost's forearm like a lifeline. "C'mon. Just let me warm up. No wonder it's so fuckin' cold outside. You're keeping all the heat for yourself!"
"Jesus fucking— alright, alright. But one at a time." Ghost removes his arm completely from Johnny's cold grip and rests his hand palm-up on the table, forearm outstretched. His fingers quirk at Johnny's own.
Soap gingerly places his cold hand in Ghost's warm palm.
"Good. Now be quiet." Ghost returns to his book and his tea, relying on his unoccupied hand to juggle both tasks at once. Which it does, with ease.
It helps a good deal to warm Soap's cold digits. It helps even more to thaw his heart. And when Gaz enters the kitchen not long after, on the hunt for his own late-night cuppa, neither Ghost nor Soap finds it imperative to break their hands apart.
It doesn't have to mean anything. It just is.
10th, 11th, & 12th December
Soap and Ghost meet over coffee and tea three nights in a row. Always planning for 2100 sharp, always one of them inevitably late for one reason or another. But by half past the hour, it's a near guarantee both of them are in their seats, at their table, for their time. And since the cold hasn't let up, Johnny often saps Simon's warmth while holding his hand, first one then the other, alternating quietly as the minutes tick by until there's nothing but dregs at the bottom of their cups.
On the evening of December eleventh, Soap squeezes Ghost's hand in thanks before letting it drop.
On the evening of December twelfth, Simon threads his fingers in Johnny's and squeezes back.
13th December
"Off to your date with Ghost?" Gaz asks casually as Soap stacks his cards and stuffs the money he's won into his pocket. He's doing better lately at cards. A lot better.
"It's not a date," he throws back over his shoulder. Gaz rolls his eyes, but Soap's neither mad nor offended because there's no truth to Gaz’s words. It's not a date. Dates are stodgy: all forced romanticism and tired tropes. They're boring, and obvious, and not his style.
His thing with Ghost? It's just a regular hangout. A comforting routine for the both of them.
That's all.
21st & 22nd December
Mission prep has screwed with their schedules lately, and Ghost and Soap are like ships passing in the night when it comes to enjoying their respective gifts. Soap occasionally raises his mug in acknowledgement to Ghost at their morning meetings, indicating the coffee within is what he's come to think of as 'special.' Ghost, likewise, will walk by Johnny's office in the evenings, passing just long enough to peek through the window, rap on it with a knuckle and point at his own steaming mug in thanks.
A pang echoes in the cavern of Johnny's ribcage whenever he hears the telltale tap. He's intimately familiar with the pain of yearning by now. Yearning for more than coffee, for more than tea. Yearning for a hand held carefully in a warm and welcome palm. Yearning for the small sips, the still air, the quiet sighs of contentment.
They're on an op together over the next three days. Johnny figures it's fair game, since he won't be on base to open his calendar one day at a time, to cheat a bit and open the next few slots so he can bring the coffee packets with him.
"Johnny," Ghost acknowledges as he sits beside him, tearing into an MRE. Soap, already halfway done with his chilli mac, scoots over to make room.
Ghost pulls a Christmas-themed tea sachet from his pocket. Johnny's heart skips a beat.
"You too?" he says with a small but genuine half-smile, pulling out his own packet of instant coffee and giving it a wave.
Ghost snorts. "We're that predictable now, eh? Like an old married couple."
Johnny feels himself blush, grateful for the cover of darkness.
"Punctual, as well." He checks his watch and smirks. "Twenty-one hundred, on the dot. Would you look at that. We're both actually on time."
"A Christmas miracle."
It's not their table, and it's not their spot. It's not comfortable and not warm. But when Soap reaches his cold hand out to Ghost, he takes it without question and tucks it into the folds of his parka. They finish their meals that way: side by side, giving and receiving the gifts of space and time, sipping and nearly even smiling.
On day two of the op, it's the same story. Except Ghost joins Soap's side a little sooner, takes Soap's hand in his a little earlier, threads their fingers together and lets Johnny doze on his shoulder before it's time to pack up.
When Johnny's dazed in his half-sleep, he thinks he may even sense the soft touch of fingers running through his hair.
When he wakes proper, it's gone.
24th & 25th December
"Only one left, Simon," Johnny says. He's saved the best for last: a honey-vanilla-bourbon coffee that reminds him of Ghost.
Simon hums over the top of his mug. He takes a sip of his tea, still steaming, and looks mournfully into his cup.
They're back at base. Their kitchen, their table, their seats. Their spot. But it's not the same. Something feels off. Something feels wrong.
"Not a good one?" Johnny asks.
"My favourite so far," Simon admits. "Just wish I had more."
"Aye," Johnny says. The sinking feeling in his gut suddenly makes sense. "Me too."
They sit in silence, hands clasped a bit tighter than usual. Johnny barely tastes his coffee as he sips, slowly as he can. Whether it's because he doesn't enjoy it or he's enjoying it too much to let it go, he's not sure.
The clock strikes midnight. They've been here for three hours. Three hours for one cup of tea and one cup of coffee, both long gone cold, and half an entire novel read between them.
Soap startles at the chime and they break apart; both stand on pure instinct. "Oh– fuck, it's Christmas, isn't it," he says, forcing a flat smile and turning to Ghost.
Johnny stills. In the dim light he can't be sure of what he sees.
Because he sees Ghost, it's true. Or rather, Simon: the mask is gone, in its stead an expression too vulnerable, too hopeful, too real. Too yearning, too much.
"Happy Christmas, Johnny."
Johnny can't breathe. His heart beats forcefully and tugs him toward Simon. He takes a cautious step, projecting his bravest facade.
"Did you ask Santa for anything this year, Simon?"
"I did. Not sure he'll listen to me, though. Probably didn't make the nice list. With all the– you know." He waves his hand vaguely, his warm chuckle putting Johnny at ease immediately. This isn't some stranger, after all. This is a man he's known for years. His friend. His… his…
"Aye. Gonna have to pick out your own gifts then, eh?" Johnny takes another step. They're close enough to touch, nearly close enough to kiss. But for some reason it's harder to lie to yourself about the innocence of kissing your superior officer than simply holding his hand.
Simon steps forward into his space, slipping hands around his waist, resting their foreheads together. Johnny's heart works overtime as adrenaline takes over.
"Picked mine out a long time ago. Just haven't brought him home yet." Simon's smile dazzles in the darkness, eyes shining with intent.
"Today's the day then," Johnny says in barely a whisper, before surging up to meet Simon's lips with his own.
It's nothing and everything. Both a long time coming and still nothing he's ever experienced before. It's the familiarity of Simon and the rush of Ghost. The chaos of a ship sailing stormy seas, and the cosiness of a quiet night in by the fire.
And he'll take it; he'll take all of it and more.
"Almost didn't make it to our first date," Ghost admits, lips brushing his ear as they pull apart, hands still on Johnny's hips and laying claim to him with light pressure.
"It wasn't a date." Johnny leans into the touch. They fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, all hard muscle and soft sweaters. A perfect match.
"It was," Ghost insists. "I meant for it to be. Was too scared to ask you in person though. Can you believe that, Johnny?" Ghost laughs at his own cowardice. "You do that to me."
Johnny smiles and nuzzles his face into Ghost's shoulder. "And I'll do worse, if you let me."
A resounding laugh sounds from Ghost's chest, and Johnny holds him close, savouring both the feeling and the sound of it. He takes a step back and surveys the man in front of him. Warm. Content. Safe and secure. Simon doesn't love in loud ways, but god dammit does he love hard.
"I'm glad you showed up, Si." He takes Simon's hands in his, both of them, and squeezes.
"Me too."