Chapter Text
The safe house was unremarkable, a squat, grey structure barely visible against the snow-laden woods. The storm outside had been raging for hours, a relentless whiteout that battered the building with icy gusts and howling winds. Snow piled high against the windows, and the walls creaked under the force of the gale. The wood-burning stove in the corner struggled to fend off the biting cold, its faint glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The scent of damp wood and lingering smoke clung to the air, seeping into every corner of the cramped space.
Inside, the team sat huddled around a battered table. A single bulb swung gently from the ceiling, its dim light highlighting the weariness etched across their faces. Supplies were running low, and the safe house felt smaller with each passing hour, its confined walls pressing in like the snow outside.
Soap blew into his hands, rubbing them together briskly. His breath fogged in the icy air as he muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
“Better than being out there,” Price said from where he leaned against the stove, adding another splintered log to the flames. His voice was steady, calm, but his eyes were fixed on the fire as if willing it to grow.
Soap scoffed, gesturing around the room. “Aye, well, not by much. Think we’ll still be here come Christmas? Stuck in this frozen hellhole?”
Gaz glanced up from the radio he’d been fiddling with, his brow furrowed. Static crackled faintly, filling the silence. “Unless that storm clears, we’re not going anywhere. Could be days yet.”
Soap groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Fantastic. Best Christmas ever.”
Price glanced towards the frost-covered window, where Ghost stood silently, his posture stiff and unyielding. He was a shadow against the dim light, the edges of his figure blurred by the condensation on the glass. The balaclava he always wore revealed only his eyes, which were fixed on the swirling snow outside. His gloved hand rested on the windowsill, unmoving, and the stillness of him felt almost unnatural—like a tightly coiled spring on the verge of snapping.
The quiet unease in the room wasn’t lost on Soap. Ever the optimist, he straightened in his chair, forcing a grin. “Oi, Ghost,” he called, his tone light and teasing. “Fancy helping me brighten this place up? Could string some lights or hang something festive. It’s grim enough without us all sulking.”
Ghost didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as he muttered, “Not interested.”
Soap’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Ah, come on, mate,” he pressed, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. “Even you can’t be above a bit of holiday spirit. You could use it, I reckon.”
Ghost turned his head then, his eyes cold and sharp under the dim light. “I said, drop it.” His voice was low, steady, and left no room for argument.
The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Soap shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense as he looked towards Price for some kind of signal. The captain’s gaze was fixed on Ghost, his expression unreadable, but after a moment he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Soap leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Suit yourself, Lieutenant.”
Ghost didn’t respond. His hand dropped from the windowsill as he turned away, his steps clipped and deliberate as he left the room. The door to the adjoining space shut behind him with a soft but deafening click.
Soap exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to push him,” he muttered, glancing back at Price.
Price stepped away from the stove, his expression softening slightly. “You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault.”
Gaz, who had been watching quietly from his seat, frowned. “What’s his deal, anyway? He’s been like this all week.”
Price’s response came slowly, his voice quieter now. “It’s not my story to tell. But this time of year… it’s not easy for him. Give him some space.”
Gaz and Soap exchanged a look, both nodding in silent agreement. Still, there was a lingering heaviness in the air, and it seemed to settle deeper into the room now that Ghost had gone.
The hours dragged on, the storm outside a relentless fury of wind and snow. Inside, the safe house had grown oppressively quiet. The stove crackled faintly, its orange glow casting long shadows across the room. Soap had finally abandoned his search through the supply crate, muttering about the lack of decent provisions, while Gaz leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stared at the faintly glowing radio. Price stood near the stove, his eyes distant, his mind elsewhere.
A sudden knock shattered the quiet. It was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the howl of the storm like a gunshot. The team reacted instantly—Gaz straightened, his hand going to his sidearm, while Soap shot Price a questioning look.
Price moved towards the door, his steps steady but cautious. His hand rested lightly on the rifle propped against the wall as he glanced back at the others. “Stay sharp,” he said quietly. “Could be anything.”
Soap sidled closer to the door, his pistol drawn and ready. “Anything? Or anyone?” he murmured, his humour noticeably absent.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Price pressed his ear to the door, his brow furrowing as he listened. A muffled voice reached him, faint but unmistakable, carrying the weight of familiarity even through the storm. “John! Open the door, or I will freeze out here!”
For a moment, Price froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then the tension in his shoulders released all at once, and he reached for the latch, yanking the door open against the howling wind.
Nik stood there, his figure outlined by the swirling snow, his coat dusted white and his cheeks red from the cold. His breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the frigid air, but the grin on his face was bright enough to rival the glow of the stove.
“Nikolai!” Price’s voice was low but edged with something that sounded suspiciously like relief. He stepped forward, gripping Nik’s arms to steady him as the wind threatened to shove them both back. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”
Nik’s grin softened into something more intimate, his voice warm despite the storm whipping around them. “Could not let you spend Christmas without me, could I?” His gloved hand lingered on Price’s arm, his touch reassuring.
“You’re mad,” Price said, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a rare smile. “This storm could’ve killed you.”
“For you?” Nik shrugged, leaning in closer as his voice dropped to a murmur. “I would walk through worse.”
Price shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he pulled Nik inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The sudden quiet of the safe house felt almost overwhelming after the storm’s chaos, and the others stared at the new arrival with a mix of surprise and relief.
Nik stomped the snow from his boots, shrugging off his coat and shaking out the worst of the frost. His gaze flicked back to Price, his expression softening as he murmured, “Merry Christmas, mishka.”
Price’s answering smile was brief but genuine. “Merry Christmas, love,” he replied, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of them. He reached out, brushing a stray bit of snow from Nik’s shoulder before letting his hand drop.
Soap broke the moment, his voice loud and incredulous. “Nik, you daft bastard! What in God’s name are you doing out there in this storm?”
Nik turned, his grin returning in full force as he glanced towards Soap. “Saving you from yourselves, apparently,” he said, his thick accent colouring his words. He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, producing a bottle of vodka with a triumphant flourish. “Emergency rations.”
Gaz snorted, lowering his sidearm as he gave Nik a quick nod. “You’ve got your priorities sorted, then.”
Nik laughed, but his gaze slid past the sergeants towards the closed door leading to the adjoining room. His smile faded slightly, and he turned back to Price, his voice quieter now. “And Simon?”
Price hesitated, his eyes following Nik’s line of sight. “He’s…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s struggling.”
Nik’s eyes softened, understanding flickering across his face. He reached into his bag again, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped parcel. “I brought something for him,” he said quietly, holding it out to Price. “Not much, but... maybe it will help.”
Price took the parcel, weighing it in his hand. “He’ll appreciate it,” he said, though his voice was edged with uncertainty.
Nik clasped a hand on Price’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He has you. That is enough.”
Price’s fingers tightened briefly around the parcel as he let out a low sigh. His gaze lifted to Nik’s, and for a moment, the tension in his features softened. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you?” he murmured, his voice carrying a rare, almost teasing note.
Nik’s grin widened, his hand sliding down Price’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion before resting just above his elbow. “Only for you,” he said lightly, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the weight behind his words.
Price shook his head faintly, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. “You’re mad, coming through that storm.”
“And you love it,” Nik countered, leaning in just enough that his breath warmed the air between them. His gaze held Price’s, steady and unwavering, and for a brief moment, the room seemed smaller, the world outside distant and irrelevant.
The sergeants exchanged a glance, Soap clearing his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for later.”
Price turned towards him, his expression carefully neutral, but the faintest hint of colour crept up the back of his neck. Nik, on the other hand, laughed easily, his smirk only growing as he released Price’s arm and turned to face the others.
“What do you have in mind for this evening?”
Soap perked up “Gaz, you’re on wrapping duty. Price you’re on food and…Nik, you’re on morale.”
Nik raised an eyebrow, glancing at Price with an amused smirk. “Morale?”
“Don’t look at me,” Price said, his tone dry but softened by the faintest hint of a smile. “He’s the one giving orders now.”
The warmth from the stove slowly spread through the room as the storm continued to rage outside. Soap dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor, pulling out scraps of old paper and a small pencil from his kit. His brow furrowed as he carefully began folding and sketching, the sharp movements of his hands betraying his focus.
Gaz raised an eyebrow from where he sat nearby, unspooling a length of thread he’d found in one of the supply crates. “What’s that supposed to be, then?” he asked, nodding towards Soap’s creation.
“Dunno yet,” Soap admitted, though his tone was light. “Just thought... maybe something for Ghost. Don’t know what, but it’s gotta be something, yeah?”
Gaz glanced at the scraps of paper and gave a small, approving nod. “Yeah. He’s not going to say it, but... I reckon he needs it.”
Soap’s hands stilled for a moment, his gaze dropping to the makeshift decorations in front of him. “You think he’ll even keep it? Or just bin it the first chance he gets?”
Gaz leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that we did something. He’ll know it’s from us.”
Soap let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You sound like Price.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gaz shot back with a grin, before sobering slightly. “I mean it, though. He might act like nothing gets to him, but you’ve seen the way he’s been. It’s bad.”
Soap nodded, his hands resuming their work. “Aye. The way he froze up earlier...” He trailed off, his expression flickering with guilt. “I didn’t mean to set him off, you know. Just thought a bit of banter might help.”
“Not your fault,” Gaz said firmly. “Price said it himself. He’s carrying a lot, and it’s not on us to fix it. Just to let him know we’re here. even if we don’t know what’s going on”
Soap nodded again, his movements growing more purposeful. The faint scratch of pencil against paper filled the quiet space as he began sketching small patterns across the scraps. His usual precision was softened here, his strokes more hesitant, but Gaz didn’t comment. He simply continued his work, the two of them falling into a companionable silence.
Across the room, Price sat near the stove, his focus half on the fire and half on the small parcel Nik had handed him. The weight of it felt disproportionate to its size, and he turned it over absently in his hands, the edges of the paper smooth beneath his fingers. Nik, perched nearby, sipped from a steaming tin mug, his eyes quietly tracking Price’s movements.
“Still thinking about him?” Nik asked softly.
Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. “Always.”
Nik leaned back, his mug cradled in both hands. “You have done more for him than anyone else ever could. Try not to let yourself forget that, Mishka.”
Price’s gaze lingered on the flames, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, his voice low. “He’s still... there. Stuck in it.”
“And he is still here, with you,” Nik pointed out. “He would not be if he did not want to be, you and I both know that.”
Price exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”
Nik’s smile was small but steady. “No, not simple. But the truth.”
In the adjoining room, Ghost sat on the edge of the cot, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped tightly between his knees. The faint crackle of the stove in the other room seeped through the walls, but it did nothing to drown out the silence that clawed at his mind. The storm outside howled, the wind battering the safe house with icy ferocity, but to Ghost, it barely registered. His focus was elsewhere, lost in memories he wished he could burn away.
The scent of iron and gunpowder seemed to cling to him, even now. He could still see it—the crimson streaks splattered across the carpet, the pale hand of his mother lying limp against the arm of the sofa. His nephew’s tiny body crumpled in the corner, his favourite toy still clutched in one hand. The echoes of his what his brother’s voice sounded like, it must’ve been raw and frantic, shouting for help that never came. It was all so vivid, so painfully clear, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
Ghost inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had found them like that—his family, executed in cold blood—on what was meant to be a day of warmth and love. He had walked into his childhood home expecting laughter and the smell of roasting turkey. Instead, he’d been met with silence and the metallic tang of death hanging thick in the air.
And then there was the fire.
He’d struck the match himself, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. The flames had climbed quickly, consuming everything—his memories, his childhood, the evidence of the life that had been taken from him. He had watched it all burn, the heat licking at his face as he turned his back and walked away, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.
But he hadn’t left it all behind. The guilt stayed with him, a constant weight he carried. He had faked his death that day, disappearing into the shadows, but no matter how far he ran, the memories followed. His family’s silence, their bloodied faces, the betrayal that had led him to them too late. It never stopped. Not even now, years later, sitting in a safe house surrounded by people who would never understand.
His breathing hitched, his fingers digging into his knees. He could feel the storm pushing against the walls, its howl seeping through the cracks like the echoes of the past he couldn’t escape. The sound of boots scuffing on wood and the distant murmur of voices filtered through the walls, but it wasn’t enough to ground him.
A soft knock at the door cut through the noise.
“Simon?” Price’s voice was low and steady, a quiet anchor against the tempest inside him. “You don’t have to come out, but... we’re here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Ghost stared at the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Price wouldn’t push—he never did. That was part of what made it so much harder. Part of what made the heaviness in Ghost’s chest feel like it might crush him.
The sound of Price’s retreating footsteps left the room in silence once more. Ghost dropped his head into his hands, his gloves creaking softly as he pressed his palms against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images away, but they lingered, just as they always did.
The storm raged on outside, but faintly, he could hear the sound of the team in the other room—the low murmur of conversation, the occasional soft laugh. It grated at him and comforted him in equal measure, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not entirely.
But even now, with the warmth of their voices filtering through the walls, all he could feel was the cold weight of his past pressing down on him.