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*When I find out who organised this party, they’re getting a boot up their arse for Christmas*, Ghost thinks, glaring mutinously at the festivities as he nurses a glass of bourbon, the edge of his balaclava pulled up just enough to expose his mouth.
The old man had insisted that he show up to Laswell's annual Christmas party - “It’s the bloody holidays, Simon, and you only have to stay an hour.” - and the masked soldier was already regretting agreeing to come. There were about a million things Ghost would rather be doing right now than being nonconsensually exposed to Wham! for the nth time, while Price and Laswell get all nostalgic about the good ol’ days.
Soap nearly collides into him as the Scotsman stumbles by on his way to the kitchen. “Oi! Are ye my past, present or future…? Fuck, if it’s the last one, hope it’s not a long while yet, mate…” Soap slurs, drunk off his arse from Nikolai’s lethal eggnog. Gaz, equally drunk but slightly more steady, wraps an arm around Soap’s shoulder, wheeling him away. “Ah, leave the poor bastard alone, you know he hates the holidays…” The sergeant mutters to Soap, who hiccups empathetically.
The implication grates on him…even if it is true. Ghost has never been one for this festive shit. It was too loud, too distracting…too personal. The food was the only positive...that, and seeing you.
Fuck. That was the other thing he hated about the holidays : the bloody sentimentality of the whole fucking season. *Christ*, he needed to get out of here.
Slipping out of the room, Ghost makes his way to the front door, opening it near silently…only to find a veritable blizzard awaiting him, wind howling. “Fuck.” He mutters reactively, shutting the door again with an irritated exhale.
When he turns you is there, and he stiffens, wary. “What?” He grunts. But before you can answer, Soap reappears (somehow even drunker), and points at a space above Ghost and you’s heads. “Ayyyy, ye know what that is, Lt.? Looks like we’re gettin’ a Christmas miracle this year after all…” He crows, before an exasperated Gaz pushes him back into the kitchen to sober up.
Ghost looks up, seeing a cluster of green leaves with white berries tied with a sprig of obnoxiously festive ribbon hung above the door. *Mistletoe.*
His eyes flick back down to meet you’s. “Not bloody likely.” He grunts, though for some reason he doesn’t move away.
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