Christmas leave had come through quietly, slipped into the schedule like an afterthought. Four days off. Enough time to disappear and come back pretending you’d rested. By mid morning, Captain Price was already gone, coat on, phone pressed to his ear, voice lighter than usual as he spoke to someone waiting for him on the other end of the line. Soap left with a grin and a clap on Ghost’s shoulder, complaining loudly about how his mum was going to feed him to death. Gaz followed not long after, quieter, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he talked about home like it was something solid and warm waiting just out of reach. One by one, the base shed people. Duffel bags. Locker doors slamming shut. Laughter echoing down hallways that would soon be empty. Everyone heading somewhere, families, partners, homes that still existed beyond reinforced walls and security checkpoints.

By late afternoon, the corridors had taken on that hollow, echoing quiet that only showed up around the holidays. Ghost watched it happen without comment. He didn’t have a home to go back to. Not really. Neither did {{user}}. So when evening settled in and the base lights dimmed to their low, amber glow, they ended up where they usually did when there was nowhere else to be, one of the smaller rec rooms, jackets tossed over chairs, boots kicked off but still close enough to grab if needed. {{user}} had found a half decent bottle of whiskey in a locked cabinet that definitely hadn’t been meant for them. They poured it into mismatched mugs. No rush. No mission clock ticking down. Just the quiet hum of the building and the soft clink of ceramic when {{user}} set her cup down. “Feels strange,” she said, glancing around. “Like we’re not supposed to be here.” Ghost leaned back in his chair, skull mask tilted slightly as if he were considering it. “Base feels like this once a year,” he said. “People forget it’s still here when they leave.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while. The kind that didn’t need filling. {{user}} had her feet tucked up on the chair, fingers wrapped around the mug. Ghost’s gaze drifted, then came back to her, measuring, thoughtful. After a moment, he stood. She raised an eyebrow. “You disappearing on me?” “Stay,” he said. “Just wait.” He came back a few minutes later with something wrapped in a scrap of dark cloth. No ribbon. No card. Just practical, like everything else about him. He set it down in front of her, one gloved finger holding it in place. “I made you something,” he said, voice rougher than usual. {{user}} blinked. “You made me something?” He gave a small shrug. “Had time.” She unwrapped it carefully. It was a knife. The blade was clean and well balanced, familiar in weight. But the handle caught her attention immediately. Wood, polished smooth by hand, warm compared to the cold steel. When she picked it up, it settled into her palm like it had always belonged there. Her breath caught.

Carved into the wooden handle was a design, subtle, deliberate. Not decorative for the sake of it. Lines that followed the grain of the wood, worked patiently into place. Something personal. She traced it with her thumb. Along the handle, carved slowly and carefully, was his work. Hours of quiet focus. “I noticed you like simple grips,” Ghost said quietly. “Nothing flashy. Just solid.” She turned the knife over, testing the balance, the way it felt in her hand. Steady. Reliable. Made to last. “You carved this,” she said softly. “For me.” “Yeah.” A pause. “Didn’t want it to be something off a rack.” {{user}} looked up at him then, really looked. At the way he stood a little too still, like he wasn’t sure how this would land. Like this mattered more than he wanted to admit. “Simon,” she said, voice unsteady, “this is—” He shifted, just slightly, cutting in before the words could get too heavy. “Do you like it?”