Chapter Text
Between the vast moors, mountains, and plateaux spread across its breadth, the Scottish Highlands was a force to be reckoned with, and a treat for any person deeply enamoured with, or wishing to connect with, the beauty of (relatively) unspoilt nature. It was no wonder that, when prompted, a certain Sergeant on a certain Task Force had chosen it for their collective down time.
They had settled on the Cairngorms, one of five of the region’s extensive mountain ranges. Soap, ever familiar with the area, had fully thrown himself into planning activities and arranging their accommodations at a guest house in Aviemore, the nearby resort town – much to the chagrin of his superior officers at the 141 who, while similarly excited, still needed him to finish his usual tasks at base in the meantime.
It didn’t take much convincing Price and Gaz to take up the odd snow sport this leave; both loved a bit of action, anyway, so any movement that wasn’t avoiding getting shot at or crawling through all manner of dirt, debris, muck, mud, and gore was the perfect respite. It was his other teammate who showed quite a bit more hesitancy.
‘It’s in February,’ Ghost grumbled in the mess hall at dinner, pushing his roast around on his half-empty plate.
Soap’s brows furrowed in the way they did when made any attempt to argue his case. ‘All the more reason to go,’ he insisted, stuffing a mouthful of peas in his gob. ‘A cannae describe why or hoo, but somehow the snow feels wetter if we gang lair in the season, especially doun the ben. Snow’s best when it’s powdery.’
‘Couldn’t we have chosen somewhere warmer?’
‘Hey, now,’ Gaz interjected playfully, gesturing between the two men open palms apart like a supply teacher deescalating a schoolyard squabble. ‘Soap had best of three. We honour a bet around here, don’t we, Boss?’
141 had made and gone through difficult, oftentimes violent, yet decisive action spanning multiple nations in their time as a joint task force. They were capable of weighing their options to reduce casualties, or enact maximum damage, as needed. Winning best of three at Scissors, Paper, Rock and using it as deciding factor was laughable at best, the Lieutenant thought as he methodically ate the rest of his victuals. They might as well have chosen a pub for a night out on Hereford using a plumb bob.
Price gave a huff of acknowledgement, though it was hard not to see the corners of his smallish eyes crinkle, or even the barest upward quirk of a mouth corner through his scruffy beard, in amusement at the team’s antics. ‘You’ll get next pick next group leave, Simon. Kyle and I don’t have any particular preferences either way so long as it’s relatively clean.’
Ghost made a mental note to pencil in Greece for Q3. Any sun on his normally tactical gear-covered skin would set him right for a few months. Perhaps the whole year. He could practically hear the lapping of the waves on sandy shores already.
‘Holding all of you to that,’ he huffed in defeat.
‘On my Gran’s honour,’ Soap raised his arm as if to swear an oath. Gaz held his hands up and Price raised his eyebrows when Ghost turned to face the two as if to bind them to some unspoken contract.
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The accommodations were nice enough. Soap had reserved rooms at a cosy guest house; to save up, Soap booked two rooms with two twin beds each, on opposite ends of the first floor. They paired off, naturally: Gaz went with Price and took the room to left on the far end of the hall; the remaining two, to the right.
The first night was generally uneventful. A 9 hour drive from base did a number on the team, especially Soap, who was made to drive the longest block as he knew the way better.
Just as they were preparing Ghost’s eyes wandered to Soap setting his gear out on his side of the room, occasionally stumbling somewhat awkwardly in the process in his exhaustion.
He did seem very excited to get back to this, he noted. It seemed a long time since he had gotten to do this last, especially since their last slew of missions took them away from home for far longer than any of them would’ve liked. And he was completely eager to share this with them. As much as Ghost wasn’t partial to the snow, he wasn’t about to take the few pleasures his subordinate – his... friend had away from him.
‘Snowboarding’s still for savages, Johnny,’ Ghost piped up, hiding a slight smirk under his mask.
‘Och, cheer up, Lt. It’s not quite so bad,’ the Scot grinned, then opened his mouth to let out a big, loud yawn. ‘Besides, ye’ve seen me at work, aye? I’m right at home an ya ken it. Perfect fit. Snug like a glove. A savage in a savage sport.’
Barely a few hours in and somehow the crisp Caledonian air seemed to deepen Soap’s brogue. It felt almost… endearing. Energising. Dangerous as that was to contemplate.
Soap set his board up against the wall, his one last thing before finally getting into the covers. ‘Ye ever do any snow sports, Si?’
‘I have.’ Ghost swung his legs up onto his bed and lay back to stare at the ceiling. ‘Not that they’d ever be first pick on the holiday activity list.’
‘Any good?’
Ghost turned to face Soap, only to find him prone, faced towards the wall, and only just conscious enough to keep talking coherently.
‘S’ jist… I’ve ne’er seen ye dae any afore,’ he slurred. ‘Anyhow, where would ye have picked? To go, that is.’
The lieutenant wondered if it was safe to answer that. He turned back up to the ceiling, thinking harder on it.
‘Si?’
He nearly jumped thinking that sleep would’ve taken Soap by now. Seems not even sheer exhaustion could beat the sergeant.
Ghost sighed. ‘Some nice, secluded beach. Mediterranean. Nice enough waves to foil board on. Bask later in the afternoon just as the sun goes down.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Get a tan.’
Soap hummed. Hummed again. Half-tired thoughts stewing, perhaps. ‘Never took you for a water man. Wonder if you surf.’
Ghost didn’t answer. Perhaps it was for the best he didn’t entertain any of that.
‘’d love to see that bronze ye were haverin’ about on you.’
‘Hmm.’
‘An’ no’ just on yer eyes.’
‘Hm.’
‘Teach me?’
‘Hm?’
‘Foil. Surf.’
‘If you show me what you’re made of on the slopes.’
‘Aye. C’ld dae that.’
Ghost allowed himself a small smile at that. ‘Go to sleep, Johnny.’
‘Bruadair mhath, Simon.’
Before he could manage to chide him to speak English, a low, rumbling snore came out of the Scot. Ghost shook his head and turned out the light.
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Since they weren’t avid snow sportsmen, the three others needed to get their completely new gear. Price’s was a practical set: olive green jacket, charcoal grey ski pants – not too far from his standard issue garments. Gaz opted for yellows and blacks. Ghost never strayed from his usual colour palette littered with greys and blacks, though instead of his usual grease paint and signature skull balaclava he opted to conceal his eyes with black goggles and a plain black balaclava.
And Soap–
A pair of bright red-clad buttocks greeted Ghost as he reentered his room. Half their owner ducked under his bed.
He could make out the sound of faint thumping, as if someone were patting down the carpet under them. ‘I’m a fuckin’ roaster, pure fuckin’ bawbag— Ah, got it—’ A louder thump, followed by a groan, then, after a beat, a quick skitter back up to a kneeling position. Part of him wished he had some way to remember the sheer embarrassment on Soap's face by.
‘Lt.! Ah, a wee part came off my goggles, made its way under your bed.’
‘And your head?’
‘Never better,’ Soap rubbed the where the back of his head hit the frame.
‘We’re off soon.’
‘Aye, I know,’ Soap groaned, clutching something tiny between his fingers as he rose to sit and fix the part back on his eyewear. ‘Never realised how lang it was since I last did this. Barely had any time on base as it was.’
As the Scot rose, Ghost could just make out the faint outlines of well-defined back muscles from his dark skin-tight thermals lit by the curtain-softened light coming from their window and how fitted the ski trousers fit over his toned legs.
He looked… fit.
What?
Ghost cleared his throat. ‘Nice kit.’
‘Ta,’ Soap smiled, twisting around to show off his range of motion and flex playfully at his superior officer. ‘Auld set, this, but I’ve worn it a good wheen times to ken I can move doon safely in it. Almost like I’m wearing nothing at all! Good thing it all still fits.’
Time seemed to slow as he watched him shrug on his equally bright red ski jacket. He caught the way his arm muscles flexed and moved as he effortlessly put on the matching jacket.
Ghost sighed deeply, trying to mask how conflicted all this was making him feel. ‘Could’ve sworn you’ve packed on a few since winter started. Looking like it fits too much.’
‘Aw, haud yer weesht, I have not.’
‘Reckon it’s all that mulled wine and pie.’
‘It is not!’ Soap laughed like he’d never seen the arse ends of the world as he picked up his gear and followed his Lieutenant out of their room. ‘I am braw! A’ll hae ye ken A’ve been keepin’ hale and fere! Haud a wee look at me: pure muscle, that is!’
Ghost tamped down the satisfaction he felt at making him laugh. At how much bluer his eyes seemed to be when he was over the moon. ‘English, Johnny,’ he grumbled.
Soap gave a firm few pats of Ghost’s shoulder and managed to (hopefully) playfully push past him on the stairs. ‘You’ll see on the slopes, auld yin.’
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Gaz could’ve sworn he saw the red flash of Soap's ski wear practically fly past. His own efforts at relearning to ski felt almost useless now; he probably looked more like a muppet with his mouth hanging agape. He was almost tempted to drop his ski sticks before he could embarrass himself further.
‘Cheer up, Kyle,’ Price said, equally awed but just as measured and contained. ‘He’s practically a berserker.'
'And I'm not?'
'Count your blessings, son. He's got bollocks enough to make up for the rest of us.'
Just as they were turning to focus on their skiing, a dark grey flash followed suit, landing with a powdery spray as it zoomed past.
‘Oi!’ Price barked at both of them over their intercom before they could lose signal. ‘Pillocks.’
‘What were you saying, auld yin? Gotten pudgy now, have I?’ Soap cackled over the intercom.
‘Not what I said. I said—‘ Ghost manoeuvred effortlessly around trees and other obstacles. ‘—you might want to consider your lifestyle choices before the next physical—’
‘Take that back, ye doaty!’
Soap was keen to show off his snowboarding prowess if it meant a go at those lessons—and, if it worked to impress Ghost in the process, well... Fingers crossed. A man could hope.
Coming onto a large hump on the snow, Soap popped the nose of his snowboard off the slope; with great power, he launched himself forward, effortlessly flipping over and back onto the snow. The powder seemed almost a decorative flourish to his manoeuvre.
‘See that, Lt.? Now that is artistry,’ Soap ribbed, buttering as he passed.
Determined to get him one back, Ghost steeled his resolve, aiming to hit several frontside nose-rolls. Swinging his back foot front, he did end up on the right footing, managing to catch up with Soap in as much as swaggering fast down a mountain slope could afford him.
In the midst of some kind of mid-adrenaline clarity, he took in the whole image before him. Johnny, a vision in red, in those flattering trousers, confidence oozing through every pore, through his clothes, as he expertly navigated the slope, a deep contrast against the bright, clear blue sky.
There it was again. The flutter. The unexpected beauty behind all this.
By his sixth go – and Soap had been whooping his compliments over the intercom – Ghost tipped back a little too far for his liking. ‘Oh, shite.’
Next thing he knew, the world spun far too fast. Crash against crunch against crash against wet against crunch. It was all he could do to keep himself from breaking something and cutting the holiday short altogether. Or his life.
He hadn’t realised how long he was on the ground until he heard the sounds of someone calling after him.
‘Lt.? Lt.! Simon?’ Soap said frantically, grasping Ghost’s (frankly massive) arm and shaking lightly trying to get his attention or check he was still all there. He breathed a sigh of relief once he got a reaction out of him. ‘Hey, Simon, you broken?’
Ghost grunted as he sat up, quietly giving himself a full-body examination as he sat – rather pathetically, in his mind – on the snow. A jagged relief cut into the snow where he had taken a tumble. Great.
‘My pride may be,’ he huffed, taking a look up at Johnny, looming, worried but coming out of it. The sun shone brilliantly behind him almost like a halo. He was all too grateful for the darkness of his goggles; otherwise, he’d have caught him staring a moment to long into those deep blue eyes. ‘Fine, Mr. Hale and Fere,’ Ghost lilted, copying Soap’s earlier cadence. “you’re still up to par.’
‘As I should be. But ye should worry more about yersel’, Si.’ It was Soap’s time to pat him down for potential injury, each time earning him a swat from the Lieutenant.
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Price felt a hard elbow in his ribs, jerking him out of his reverie as he and Gaz went up on the funicular from the bottom of the mountain.
‘Boss,’ Gaz hissed, pointing down at their companions down on the snow. Were they… play-fighting? ‘Tell me this isn’t what I’m seeing.’
The large figure Gaz is sure is Ghost is on all fours and has pinned down their berserker in red. He hears laughter in the midst of their struggle as they pass but fizzles out into... silence. Both are staring at each other long enough in that position for it to feel a little suspect, and quickly peel away just as both men came out of Gaz's view.
‘Look away, son,’ said Price, unable to contain his amusement.
‘But, Sir—’
‘At least one of them’ll figure it out soon enough.’