Work Text:
December 24, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium
Trench warfare was the absolute worst, Soap decided.
It had been raining nearly nonstop for weeks on end, leaving the trench floors so wet to the point that it was nearly impossible to walk anywhere without being swallowed knee-deep in mud. The winter clothing they had been issued blocked out the cold for the most part, but it had been months since he had last felt sincerely warm and dry.
The rain, mud, and cold itself weren’t the main issues by themselves. Rather, it was what they caused. At any given moment, parts of the trench would collapse under the weight of the wet dirt, burying soldiers underneath. On more than one occasion, it took precious lives. Then more soldiers would replace those that had died.
Even that was tame in comparison to what the soldiers had dubbed trench feet. Countless men had blisters and swollen feet, red and dirty and pulsing with pus. Their toes had sunken in, the bottoms of their calloused feet peeling apart to leave nasty, gushing wounds. The remaining men had long learned their lessons about keeping their feet out of the mud for as long as possible.
All in all, the trenches were terrible, and Soap wanted nothing to do with them anymore.
This was the first day it had stopped raining. It was replaced by gentle snow, creating a thin layer of white at the bottom of the trench. Soap wanted to be angry at it, because if it went on for enough time they would have to spend all of their time shoveling it out so they could traverse their grounds. But he couldn’t be mad, because it was beautiful.
For once, he couldn’t hear bombs exploding in the distance or gunshots ringing in his ears. Normally, the only time there was complete silence from the normal warfare was at set mealtimes. All of the soldiers, even the Germans, had to eat at some point. Then it would start again.
But not this time. The drifting white world cushioned any noise whatsoever, and John found himself actually wanting to devour the chocolate bar sent by Her Highness Princess Mary.
Not that he liked her very much. No true Scot liked any of the British, especially when they forced Scotland’s young men into the trenches.
There was only one exception to this rule, and Soap hated himself every day for it. How he couldn’t help but like the masked soldier to his right, a Britishman through and through. John had willingly joined the military years ago, if only because it was one of his only options. He stayed not just because he enjoyed the constant adrenaline-high of battle, nor the camaraderie of brothers in arms, but because of Ghost.
He was his life’s regret.
“The chocolate tastes much better than mud,” Ghost mused beside him, folding the finished chocolate wrapper neatly into a small square. There was no space inside the trenches for trash. “But if you’re content eating dirt, have right at it.”
Soap rolled his eyes and muttered a string of Scottish that he knew Ghost wouldn’t understand. As expected, a quick “speak English” followed.
“Anything from the throne is worth less than rubbish,” he said in a poor impression of a British accent.
“Even the winter clothes keeping your nose from frostbite?”
“Especially that.”
Ghost huffed in response. Even though he was wearing a mask, his breath still crystallized in the night air. It was a cruel reminder that even Ghost, someone who seemed so immune to death, was still human. And at any moment, even on Christmas Eve, he could meet his end.
The white silence found John once again. It was calming, in a way. He could almost forget that he was sitting in a cold trench, far from his homeland. He was simply having a cup of beer with a dear friend, participating in a merry conversation.
That was, of course, until he heard the sound of singing.
“What the fuck is that?” He exclaimed to Ghost, leaning his head forward and up to try to see anything past the wooden walls of the trench and the starry night sky. All it served to do was catch snowflakes in his eyelashes.
It took a beat for his friend to respond, eyes upcast in the same attempt as John. “The Germans have found the Christmas spirit.”
Whispers went up and down the British trench as the enemies got louder. “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,” they sang.
Down the line, Soap heard a soldier say, “It’s Silent Night, ‘innit?”
By God, it was. The German accent floated across No Man’s Land, worming its way into the tight space of their trench. Another soldier called to his brothers, “They’ve put up small trees on the line! They’ve got lights on them!”
Soap didn’t know what to feel. He’d always liked Christmas. Not for the sake of his own religion or for the time allotted to spend with family— his family was dead and gone, anyway— but for the spirit of the holiday. Call him childish, but he enjoyed seeing everyone in a brightened mood. He enjoyed sitting down with his brothers in arms and showing them the presents he’d scrounged together for them, relishing in the looks of surprise on their faces. He enjoyed having a bourbon and seeing entire streets decorated.
It was his favorite time of the year, which was the reason why he joined the quiet caroling of the British soldiers in response to the Germans. He was as loud as he could possibly be.
Ghost groaned. “Stop that. You sound like a howling dog.” Of course he would make that comparison. Soap hated dogs.
At least it proved that Ghost was paying attention. John leaned in and sang the lyrics to Silent Night off-key on purpose, directly into where Ghost’s ear was supposed to be. It didn’t take long for Ghost to put a gloved hand on his face and shove him away.
“C’mon! Join in, then!” He shouted, briefly cutting through the British’s now loud caroling.
“I don’t sing, Johnny.”
“Fine, then,” he said, and then cursed him out in a string of Scottish Gaelic.
“English,” Ghost said. If Soap wasn’t mistaken, he could almost pick up a bit of fondness in his tone. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. War tended to do that to a person.
“I said, once you get your thick skull out of your arse, you can join the next song. ”
Ghost stared at him, unblinking, through his embroidered skull mask. His eyes were a pure brown, illuminated by the lanterns hanging from the walls Sometimes, his eyes were a green color, like shards of grass sparkling in morning dew. Now, they looked like the chocolate John refused to eat— sweet, but made from the most bitter bean.
His eyelashes were the most physically captivating part of him, though. They were the most pure white, whiter than the snow that laced the trenches and purer than water drawn from a clear spring. People tended to think it was a sort of make-up that Ghost wore, but the truth was that he had been born that way.
Maybe he stared for a bit too long with too much intensity. Maybe the songs were intoxicating him, pumping a drug too-strong to be physical into his veins. Maybe, for the first time, he thought that the fighting wasn’t worth it on Christmas.
The British men had families waiting for them. The German men were just the same. Soap had Ghost, and Simon had John. They had to fight, if they wanted to make it to the end of the war. The very same war that they had been promised would end long before Christmas Eve.
The trenches were getting to him, he thought. He let himself get drowned back into the noise of the caroling soldiers once more. They had moved on from Silent Night, battlin the Germans in a contest to see who could be louder. It was a nice change of pace.
Despite his exasperation, Simon didn’t leave John’s side. Not even after flasks of fine bourbon— too fine for the warfront— was passed around to the awaiting soldiers. Not even when more could be obtained in a different sector of the trench. Soap didn’t dare to abandon Ghost, either. They stayed side by side in that cold trench, quipping back and forth and singing to spite the war they’d been trapped in.
For a moment, Soap allowed himself to dream of a life outside of the war. A life where he would be able to set aside his constant need for adrenaline and settle down somewhere in a nice city or town. To live in a nice house with good food— may God strike down whoever made the food issued to the soldiers— and even better company. He tried to ignore who he pictured as that company. It was unrealistic, even for him.
It wasn’t necessarily uncommon to hear the occasional shout back and forth from the Germans and British. Most of them were insults before or after a barrage of fire, declarations of hatred fueled by the unburied men lying dead in No Man’s Land. This was different, though. This silenced all of the soldiers’ singing, from both sides.
“English!” A German voice cut through. Soap had half a mind to respond with “Fritz!” . “Tomorrow, if you no shoot, we no shoot!”
Quiet murmuring spread through the trench. It was an ask for peace, an armistice for just one day. The commanders would never allow it. They had been doing everything they could to keep up the fighting spirit of the British military, setting out new attacks every time their morale dipped too low. This request for truce would never stand if the higher-ups had anything to do with it.
Although, there was one person who did things differently. Soap wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, and from the shake of Ghost’s head, he wasn’t surprised either.
“Give us enough time to bury our dead?” Officer Price shouted back. Soap could see him further down the line, on the small ladder leading up into No Man’s Land. His head was barely sticking out above the sandbags on top of the walls.
It took the Germans a second to respond, no doubt going through their translators to understand what the commander had said. “If you give time to us, too!”
“When the sun rises,” Price said, “on Christmas day.”
“Frohe Weihnachten!” Cheered the enemy.
“Happy Christmas!” The British cheered back, commanders and soldiers alike. Almost in sync, all of the sector began caroling again, starting up with Hark the Herald Angels Sing.
Ghost made a noise that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. “Ol’ man is out of his mind again.”
John could hardly believe it himself. It hadn’t just been Officer Price that agreed to the Germans’ terms. It had been all of the commanders in their sector— only God knew how many other sectors of the trench had been offered an armistice as well.
“I give it an hour before someone starts shooting,” said Ghost in lieu of John’s silence.
He didn’t know how long their peace would hold, if it did at all. All he did know was that the Germans had started the singing, put up their trees, and shouted across the trenches. He knew that they weren’t to be trusted, but that they loved Christmas more than Soap could comprehend.
So, he shrugged, picking out a cigarette from his uniform’s inner pocket. “You’re an incarnate of Krampus.”
“Krampus?”
“Santa Claus’ devil brother. Stabs misbehaving children.”
“Yes,” Ghost said, “sounds just like something I’d do.”
“Sick bastard,” he muttered through his cigar, inhaling its fumes. A soft burn entered his throat, but it was something he’d gotten used to over time. It was pleasant rather than harmful, a welcome pain to contrast the biting cold.
The tobacco would give him a necessary adrenaline boost, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. He was tired— a constant state he’d been in ever since he’d set foot in the trenches. The warfare was completely different from the missions he’d run in the military. Instead of maneuvering through cities or open land, trekking across streams and roads, he had to lay stationery and wait for the fight to come to him.
Just to break the lowering spirit of the soldiers, their commanders would send men out into No Man’s Land to rush to the other side, gather what data they could, and take down a few Fritz in the process. The number of men that went across would be halved, if that. Many times, it would be just a quarter left. Machine guns were carved from Beelzebub’s hands.
Sleep was hard in the trenches. He couldn't remember the last time he’d slept more than a few hours at a time. It was impossibly uncomfortable. There was no space to properly lie down, and he had to rush to snag a good spot before anyone else could take it.
Night was no longer the designated sleeping time. It was just whenever the soldiers could manage it, usually more in the daytime. Maneuvers and attacks tended to happen more in the shelter of the stars. The darkness masked moving soldiers and dead bodies in No Man’s Land.
Soap despised trench warfare. But if the temporary armistice went well, he could find it in himself to dig up some joy.
Stamping out his cigar burning cigar, he joined back into the singing, something he knew would last well into the night. As long as the Germans sang, the British would, too. It was a different kind of fight, one that didn’t involve bloodshed or crying wives or orphaned children. Beside him, he could hear, feel Simon hum along to the chorus with the other soldiers.
He didn’t say anything about it. If he did, it would make his friend stop. There was nothing Soap wanted more than to keep the warmth that Ghost’s humming made.
The singing did die down eventually, but not until the moon was low in the sky. Before long, it would be sunrise, and they would begin burying their dead. Hopefully, anyway.
Hitting Ghost on the chest, he said, “I’m going to take a kip. If Price comes around, tell him I’ve died.”
“Cause of death?”
“Christmas joy strangled my cold heart.” He pulled himself up into the hole behind him, just barely big enough for two people to cramp together inside for warmth and shelter. It was by no means comfortable, but it was better than sleeping in the middle of the trench and being snowed on.
“I thought I was Krampus.”
“You are,” he said, closing his eyes, “I’m your evil elf.”
There it was again. That huff of amusement that was so rare, yet seemed almost common in the snow that wrapped around them. Soap bottled up that fire and let it burn into his dreams. Dreams that consisted of a home with a cat, whiskey, warm food, and a face unmasked. A face that he’d only seen twice in his lifetime.
December 25, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium
John woke up to screaming.
“It’s Christmas, soldier! Get your ass moving or you’ll be on latrine duty!”
It was quite possible Soap had never woken up faster in his life. Officer John Price’s face stared back at him, bright with joy that he only ever got from scaring the shit out of other men. Blearily, he saw Ghost standing a pace away, arms crossed over his chest.
Noticing his staring, Simon shrugged. “I told him you were dead. He said dead men don’t drool.”
“Did you at least tell ‘im how I died?” Soap asked, a little dizzy from standing so fast after being dead asleep. Around him, men were climbing out of the trenches and into No Man’s Land. They were languid, and none carried their weapon with them. It was odd, but the glistening snow made the sight beautiful.
“MacTavish, you’re the only man I know that’s given a gift to every single person he’s met on Earth.” John wanted to be offended, but it seemed like his officer was actually trying to compliment him. “Christmas couldn’t kill you even if it tried.”
Wiping away dirt from his clothes, he cleared enough of residual sleep to really take in the waking world. He could hear German and British accents alike conversing with one another, the sound of shovels hitting the dirt, and laughter. Genuine, hearty laughter didn’t have a place in war. Yet, there it was.
“It’s time to bury our dead. Afterwards, we can see what presents Soap managed to pull together,” Price slapped them both on the backs, then joined the group of men waiting to get up the ladder.
“It hasn’t hit the first hour yet. Bet’s still on,” Ghost said, trailing after the officer with Soap.
Soap nudged through the soldiers at the base of the wooden ladder. “After, you can stab any child you see.”
“What else would there be to do?”
He didn’t think he would ever get tired of hearing that dry humor. It was a trap that Soap had long fallen into, trapped in the jaw of the skull mask. Eventually, it would end. They would part ways as they became too old to serve. John would be expected to marry a nice woman and have at least two children, and Ghost would find a girl to do the same.
At least, that was the progressive expectation. It wasn’t what he wanted, but there weren’t that many options for men like him. Every time he looked at Ghost, he was reminded of the life he wasn’t allowed to have.
The graves they dug were nowhere closer to three feet than four. Some were as shallow as two feet. There wasn’t enough time in the day to get all the way down. There were even bodies that were so decomposed that they could hardly bury them at all.
It was gruesome and tiring work, but it wasn’t the first time Soap had done it. He didn’t believe it would be his last, either.
Their sector cleared their dead bodies, storing their dog tags safely with the commanders until further notice. During the burial, soldiers had cried from both sides of the war. They were all human, and some were burying their closest friends. If John had been burying Price, Alejandro, or Rodolfo, or anyone else he was close with, he could’ve been among them. But his friends were alive, their hearts beating with his as they intermingled with the German soldiers.
Soap refused to acknowledge that Ghost could’ve been among the dead. He was too good to die so easily.
“It’s hit the fifth hour. Lost that bet a long time ago,” John said, watching as a British man got his hair trimmed by a German soldier-barber. He already had his done— it felt nice to have his mohawk back. There were talks amongst the ranks about mandatory hair shaving, but he ignored it. Nobody was going to remove his hair without his strict permission.
“Day’s not over. I might just do it myself,” Ghost replied nonchalantly. At the beginning, the Germans had been very curious over his mask. It wasn’t too soon after that they realized that he had no answers to give and that if they kept asking him about it, there would suddenly be a whole lot more bodies to bury. It wasn’t very Christmas-y of him, but Soap let it pass.
Something hit him hard on the back of his head, which was then followed by, “Hey! Up for a game of football?”
In the face of the smiling soldiers standing before him, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about being hit. Instead, he began toying with the ball under his foot.
“Only if Ghost is playing,” he grinned. Simon groaned, but it wasn’t long before they were separated into teams.
There were Germans playing with Brits, and Brits playing against Germans. Their nationality didn’t matter— none of it mattered, other than kicking the ball in the right direction. It was a euphoric feeling. He’d never experienced anything like it, and he knew he would never get to again.
He kicked Ghost on more than one occasion when trying to get the ball away from him. They’d agreed to be on different teams; it’d be more fun that way, and they hadn’t been wrong. He let himself cut loose and be aggressive in a sport he hadn’t played in over a year, pushing and shoving without any real malice in his actions.
If anything, he enjoyed watching Simon play football. That was a sight he wouldn’t forget, for more reasons than one.
The soldiers stayed out for a while, long after the sun had set and the stars had risen. No Man’s Land, despite its barbed wires, ditches, and bodies underneath the surface, was much better than the trenches. Yet, John had made his way back inside. It was the place he wanted to be the least, but there was something important he needed to pile together before the night was over.
There were barely any soldiers about the sector, so there was nobody to question what he was doing. It was just as well, when he was putting on the last finishing touches, that he should hear somebody climb down the ladder.
“The war finally got you?” Ghost called, rubbing his hands together as he stalked towards John. “No presents this year.”
“No presents?” Soap asked, carefully blocking the gift inside a little dug out area inside the wall. “Well, if that’s what you believe, then I’ll just have to keep this for myself.”
He brought out the bag hiding behind his back, the contents inside all wrapped as carefully as he possibly could with gloved fingers. He didn’t want to risk frostbite, even though he knew that in the end, he’d risk everything— not just a few fingers— for Simon.
It took a second for Ghost to react, as though he wasn’t expecting a gift at all. Then, he slowly said: “Who’s it for?”
“The vultures now, since you don’t want it,” he said. But despite his words, he handed the bag over to his friend. He wasn’t in the mood to play anymore games. He’d waited long enough for the best part of Christmas.
Ghost took the bag with impossible gentleness, like he was cradling a baby. When he looked inside, genuine surprise overtook his features. “It’s all for me?” He asked, and then quickly amended with, “Seems you really do like me, Johnny.”
“Don’t get a big head. You’ll grow out of your mask.”
All of the gifts inside the bag were individually wrapped. It’d taken him the entire month to gather all of the makeshift paper and strings he needed to do the wrapping. The items themselves had been a longer game, something he’d been accumulating nearly the entire year. He just hadn’t known his progress would become stagnant after the war started.
The Germans had been of help, though.
Ghost picked one of the gifts out, setting the bag on the ground so he could undo the strings and paper. His expression was the sole reason Soap loved Christmas so much; seeing barely contained astonishment in normally-stoic people’s faces, or unbridled joy in those that didn’t mind showing emotion. It didn’t matter to him either way. It was the fact that he could make people’s day so much better with one gift that kept him celebrating.
“How did you…” It was hard to get the Ghost speechless, but apparently traditional Chinese sweets could do the trick. “Are all of these sweets?”
“You’ll have to open them to find out. I won’t do the dirty work for you, you jackass.”
On more than one occasion, John had the burning urge to take off Simon’s mask. The reasons varied, but this time, he just wanted to see if his friend was smiling. The skull made it impossible to tell what was lying underneath. The only thing he could see was his deep brown eyes. For now, that would have to be enough.
The next present he opened was a package of specialized Egyptian chocolate. Outside of fighting, sweets were Ghost’s one true love. It was the only present Soap could manage during wartime. He prayed that Price wouldn’t say anything about it.
Ghost stared at that Egyptian chocolate bar for a long time. Somewhere down in the bag, there was a German cookie called lebkuchen. He’d traded it off with a German soldier for the British chocolate he hadn’t eaten. He knew it would be worth it.
“I don’t have anything to give you,” Simon said earnestly, exchanging the Egyptian chocolate for another wrapped candy.
John flicked his hand in the air, as if waving off Ghost’s concern. “I know what you can give me,” he said. “A promise.”
Ghost stilled, leaving the gift halfway undone. “My word?”
“When we leave the military, whenever that may be,” Soap hoped that Ghost couldn’t detect the slight quaver in his voice, blaming it on the cold, “we stay friends. Become next door neighbors in the same town.” In America, maybe, where the war hadn’t reached.
There were times when Soap liked silence, such as on Christmas Eve when all of the fighting had ceased and it only snowed. There were more times that he hated it, like now, when he couldn’t read what Ghost was thinking.
“I’ll adopt a dog. Name it after you.”
Relief had never felt so good. “Cruel, even for you.”
If Ghost picked up on Soap’s nerves, he didn’t comment on it. He did, however, relish in bites of the German cookie he eventually unwrapped. Soap was happy to see a little bit of his face, even if it was just his mouth and jaw. It was better than nothing at all.
He didn’t sleep very well that night; the bursting sounds of bombs and dying men kept jerking him awake.
September 12, 1917 ; Calais, France
It was lonely in the cot. There were nurses that came to care for him, and they were nice enough. There were the other men in the infirmary, but they were busy talking to each other and flirting with the poor nurses. Soap wasn’t interested in any flirting. While chatting would’ve been nice, he found it hard to participate.
Mostly because it hurt like hell to talk. On bad days, even breathing became a difficult task. Today wasn’t so bad, though. He had gotten word of a regiment coming into town.
At first, it had scared him. He could only assume the worst because he had lived through the worst. Then, he was told that the regiment was stopping to regroup and reorganize, as well as treat the wounded. The Germans had not done to them what they had done to his own regiment.
It became a waiting game after that. He only felt true relief when a nurse gently touched his shoulder and said: “You have a visitor.”
“What’s their name?” He asked hoarsely, though he had a feeling he already knew who it was. Or maybe it was just blind hope. He had been grasping at anything he could the moment the gas had filled the trench.
“It’s me, Johnny.”
There was only one person that was allowed to call him Johnny. For the first time since they had gotten separated in 1916, he smiled. “Took you long enough.”
Ghost was quiet. The indescribable and faint voices of the other men in the infirmary gave the illusion that his friend wasn’t really there at all. It sent a stabbing pain through his chest.
“I’ve eaten all the sweets,” Simon finally said. It sounded strangled, like it hurt to say.
“They don’t give me any here, so there’s none left for you. Won’t even let me have a smoke,” he grumbled. Between the gas corroding his lungs and the intense craving for a cigar, his throat was constantly hurting. At the very least, the nurses had given him chewing tobacco. It eased the cravings, but only by a little.
Ghost was so quiet, like he was just an apparition as his nickname suggested.
It was uncharacteristic of there to be such tension between them. It wasn’t anger. It was something so much worse, and it practically emanated off of his friend.
Simon said: “The war’s going to be over soon.”
They said it would be over before the end of 1914. It’d been four years since the beginning, and all of his officers had said that same godforsaken phrase every day for every month and every year. The war had reached America, as well as just about every part of the damned world they lived on. There were no safe places.
It didn’t really feel like the war would ever be over. Not when he was still lying in a cot, still unable to see and still unable to breathe. He had walked out of that trench with cloth wrapped around his eyes and hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him. It was the only way to make it out of that trench without dying.
“The mask,” he said. His throat hurt much worse than it had before. “Take it off.”
Two times, he had seen Ghost without his mask on. One had been in a group setting, a sign of camaraderie and trust amongst the men gathered. The second had been alone in a state of vulnerability. That was when they had forged the bond that could never be broken.
Soap had asked him to take it off again several times, and he’d always be met with a dead end. Complaint after complaint about John’s nagging would get him to stop for a few months, and then he’d begin it again. This time, there were no complaints. Not a single word was uttered as John strained to pick up on the pulling of fabric.
He didn’t have to be told when it was all the way off. “Come close,” he said, motioning towards himself.
Rustling of a chair against the floor as Ghost moved closer to Soap’s cot. “This good, Johnny?”
Slowly, John reached an arm out to find his friend’s face. It took a moment, but eventually the back of his hand found his cheek. Now knowing where he was, he took his precious time to cup Ghost’s face with his palms.
He let it rest there before he let his hands examine the rest of Simon’s face. His fingers traced over the curve of his eyebrows, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the new, raised scar across his hairline. The tenderness of his lips and the hair on chin. He was gentle with the eyes, though he admittedly saved that for last. He ran his thumb over his eyelashes, wishing he could see the alluring whiteness once again.
Recording it with his hands would have to do. Sight wasn’t an option anymore.
He never wanted to take his hands away from Ghost’s face. For him, it was the equivalent of letting him go entirely. He didn’t want him to go back onto the front lines, not while Soap couldn’t join him.
He let his arms go limp at his side and leaned back against his cot. This would have to do. He didn’t have much of a choice.
A hand tugged at his blindfold, pulling ever so gently that if it weren’t for his heightened senses, he might’ve not noticed it. Then, two hands covered his eyes, feeling them in the same way he had felt Ghost’s.
“After the war,” Ghost said softly, “we’ll live wherever you want. I promise.”
Soap wanted nothing more than to believe his word.