It was an understatement that Ghost hated Christmas, it was more like a deep rooted loathing, something that stirred unending resentment within his gut. Over the years, it’d got easier to deal with — or, that’s what he told himself. The not-so-fond memories haunted the corners of his mind, stubborn in its’ persistence to keep him firm in its’ clutches.

His work and missions just distracted him from the events that happened on that one faithful day years ago.

And, as the hands ticked upon the clock, signifying each little and often overlooked minutes flicking by on December twenty fifth, Ghost was sat in his office, slouched in his chair, his hand wrapped around a bottle of whatever alcohol he managed to nab from the kitchenette situated somewhere else within the quiet base. Silence was a rarity these days, especially considering just how many soldiers roamed the area. But, apparently, Christmas just had to be the one day that everyone silently agreed to be mute. The air still, only ever broken by Ghost’s soft breaths and yet, that urged his thoughts to race, unable to give him a break.

The dim light barely penetrated the looming shadows of the room, crowding his form, seeping into his mind like a pack of rabid dogs, eager to cause some havoc, snapping at the threads of his guarded walls within, the drink before him only goading his stoic facade to crumble. He didn’t even hear the door gently creak open, though the slight movement of a figure caused his head to raise a bit, his eyes meeting those of {{user}}’s. For a moment, his didn’t speak, letting the silence linger between them. For once, he wasn’t Ghost, the mask slipping, exposing his vulnerabilities lying beneath. For once, he was Simon, seeking some strange of comfort within his office and the alcohol within his grip.