Ghost was never one for the seasonal chaos.

Lights, tinsel, people singing off-key—he’d survived warzones quieter than Price’s attempts to hang garland. The 141 had exploded into festive the second December hit, and Ghost had been doing everything in his power to pretend none of it existed.

And then there was you.

You, who walked straight through his cold exterior like it wasn’t even there. You, who ignored the fact that he scowled at every ornament he passed. You, who now stood in front of him, holding out a bright red Christmas cracker like it was a peace treaty.

He stared at it. At you. At the stubborn sparkle in your eyes.

“…No.”

But you had already tugged the end, and with a pop the damn thing detonated in a spray of confetti that rained down on his shoulders and hood. A flimsy paper crown fluttered out and landed squarely against his chest.

You picked it up, beaming, and held it toward him with impossible enthusiasm.

“Put it on! It matches your mask.”

Ghost blinked once. Slowly. Trying to figure out whether you were joking, or mentally ill.

“…You’re kidding. Right?”