it's cold and it’s almost winter here which means i'm thinking about the 141 boys wrapping up warm while they're on leave back in the uk.
specifically im thinking about how each of them already have statement headwear (except soap), so its easy to imagine what they might swap to; thick beanie for price like we've seen before, ghost probably has a thicker balaclava meant for snowboarding to keep out the chill, and gaz would stay inside in his flat - warm and cosy because why the fuck would he venture out when it's snowing? - his cap firmly still in place on his head, blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders.
soap though? close knit family like his, there's no way he's not been given a handmade hat each year when he visits his gran. and given how naturally johnny mactavish can fall into being a little shit in any given situation, there's not a chance it's not learnt behaviour passed down from generations before, so i think his gran would have fun with her knitting.
which brings me to johnny's hat the year after he shaved in his mohawk:
i think she'll have made the one on the right after he talked a little too fondly about a teammate that kept a skull mask on at all times;
"does he wan' a hat, y'think? it's nae problem, i can make an extra for y'ta take along with ye when you're called off again. still be cold when yer back in a month's time."
"nah, gran, thank ye. the dafty ne'er takes his mask off fer it to be worth yer effort."
"ne'er? he ugly or sum'thin'?"
"wears a big ugly skull on th'front so ah don't think lookin' braw s'his concern."
"hm, tha' so? nae bother then. i'll just knit yers."
Like most things in Ghost’s lifetime, it all started with his family.
Well, more specifically, his nephew Joseph.
It was back when things were simpler, right after the little one’s first birthday, yet right before he’d trusted himself to go on deployment again.
He’d offered to pick up some shopping for Beth, seeing as Tommy was busy at work and their usual stroller had finally given up the ghost. She’d insisted for Simon to get a specific brand of baby food - the formula type didn’t matter, but she’d been ‘trying to wean him off for weeks’ and if it was any other type he’d ‘just bash it off the spoon like some wild bloody animal’. Simon had teased the tot for ‘giving his mum gyp’ and being ‘a picky little thing’ (Tommy had explicitly banned him from swearing in front of the kid, lest the kid would pick up Simon’s own foul language). It was alright though, Simon could never really hold anything against that doe-eyed, chubby-faced little baby, that silly little thing had already snatched up his heart in those pudgy fingers.
His shocking, immeasurable love for the boy had probably been the reason that, when he first glanced at that stupid teddy in the window of the baby shop he’d been forced to visit at Beth’s request (demand), he instantly knew he needed it.
It wasn’t really anything too fancy. A plush little thing with fake, sewn-on patches. It wasn’t even particularly fuzzy or stimulating, it was just… It just felt right.
He’d tucked the scruffy thing in his pocket after paying. His first thought had been to bolt to Tommy’s house and instantly deposit the little thing into Joseph’s uncoordinated arms.
But, it had just been his birthday, and he’d been absolutely spoiled rotten by the three of them. Simon didn’t doubt that his little bed was already smothered in toys and teddies. Maybe it would be better to wait a little while. Just until everything had calmed down a bit.
After dropping the supplies off with Beth, he’d made a decision. The plush would be a gift for after he came back from deployment - a memoir in the case that he didn’t. His decision to rejoin the military wasn’t one he’d made on the spot, of course. This little life he’d watched - and helped - Tommy build was something he adored to bits. However, there was something missing. The wage was pretty penny as well. That sense of purpose and brotherhood, sticking with one another through everything - exactly what the remains of the little boy in him yearned for. It was obvious to him that he couldn’t leave it behind, that little bear was just more of an incentive. One to come back, to remind him to trudge through no matter what and return home. He couldn’t just up and leave everything he’d helped build.
Little did he know at the time, he’d have it all ripped away anyways. Yanked out of his too-delicate grip, torn away from right under his nose like he was sure everything else would be.
To this day, he really doesn’t know why he kept that stupid little plushie. He didn’t even remember grabbing it, must’ve just bagged it like the rest of his shit after he left. He couldn’t stay there anymore - there wasn’t a thing about that place, those - now tainted - memories that didn’t wrap his stomach in knots.
Grief was a weird thing, really. It made him do weird things that he still didn’t really understand, and, he supposed this was one of them.
That little thing had accompanied him for god knows how long after. He’d only realised it was there when Roba was finally gone, and he’d been swooped up by Price into 141. Still in the same clothes as he had been in when he’d left, he figured it was a wise idea to get rid of them. Shed the last remnant of what he’d left behind.
Habit was the only reason he’d found the thing. His mum had practically hammered it into him that you ‘always check the pockets before the wash, Si, you’ll never imagine the goodies you find in ‘um.’ - hearing his mumma’s voice hurt, even in his own head, so he determinedly pushed it down, still clearing out the pockets in spite of it.
And, much to his surprise, his hand met that patchy little surface. (Maybe mum was right.)
It eventually found a home on his bed, tucked safely under the blanket his mother had gifted him, alongside Tommy’s hoodie - the one he’d mistaken for his own in the rush.
And then, there was a second plushie - this one was unexpected too.
He’d been on a mission in the Baltics - a bloody brutal one at that. Had to stakeout in an evacuated town with Price and Gaz for a painfully long while. Just like the first (Joseph’s), he’d caught an idle glimpse of it when the three were stalking around the town for a decent place to camp out in for the night. To his - very well masked - delight, the little house itself had been perfect as well. Overall untouched by the days of shelling and structurally well-off. The insulation was even somewhat intact.
As they made their way in, he noticed Price accidentally kick at the ragged thing as they entered. It had taken every ounce of strength he had not to either blow up at Price or immediately dart to cradle the worn plush in his arms. He’d internally attribute it to his raging grief at the time - the wound of his loss still jagged and gushing.
Like the good little soldier he was, though, he stuffed away all his burning feelings into his box, shoving it to the deep recesses of his mind alongside the memory of that night.
Originally, he’d decided to leave the thing alone. Keep the hurt shoved away and let anything that tugged at it be shoved down alongside it.
But some part of him- no. Simon ached and throbbed and clawed at his impenetrable, uncaring persona (what if that was Joseph’s? it wailed. he didn’t want to listen.). Was it weak? Absolutely. Selfish? Probably. Pretty weird? Yeah.
It didn’t stop him from snatching the toy up as they left, though.
The new addition to his - unbeknownst to him - growing collection found a home next to his other bear.
He’d insisted that it would be the last. It wasn’t.
The third was from Laswell.
It was before she was married - before she was even dating the lovely woman she now called her wife. Her house had been one of the many subjected to the disastrous british rain, with the whole bottom floor of her house being practically completely flooded. The task force had scrambled to help, of course, offering everything from money to offering up their services as glorified handymen. Laswell had declined, of course. She already had a well paying job and more than enough to get some repairs, all she needed was a place to stay.
Each and every one of the boys would have taken her in in a heartbeat, if not for them being in service. They weren’t exactly meant to leave base, let alone offer their apartments as temporary hotels to someone non-military.
So, naturally, they’d offered up the base instead. It wasn’t exactly pretty, and there wasn’t a guest room, but it was floodwater-free and the couch was decently cosy. It was better, and more convenient, than an impromptu hotel stay right in the middle of tourist season, so Laswell had begrudgingly accepted.
Ghost hadn’t even known about the arrangement until he had finally returned from a dull day of training up stupid, whiny little recruits and was fully planning on stripping and dropping into bed without a second thought.
And he was immediately greeted by Laswell, holed up on the couch with the telly on and wearing a pair of pjs.
Simon wasn’t gonna have that. He couldn’t give less of a shit if it was one of the recruits, the annoying little bastards, but Laswell? The woman who had guided them constantly, always tucked away in their ears when things got bad?
Simon wasn’t having this at all.
The stubbornness of the two made it a long, gruelling task, which basically ended with Ghost - as respectfully as one possibly could - manhandling Laswell into his room. He hadn’t paid the teddies a single thought, much more concerned with getting Laswell - Kate - comfy and situated, even giving her dibs over his laptop full of pirated films for the night.
Clearly, though, Laswell had paid those tiny little plushies some thoughts, seeing as, after she’d finally returned home and been given time to recoup, a box addressed to Simon - not Ghost, never Ghost to her - landed on his doorstep. Well, bedroom door, but what really was the difference on base?
He’d opened the little present to find a hand-knitted bear. A stark white one, with beady little eyes and a neatly tied ribbon along its neck. It was accompanied by a handwritten note, thanking him for letting her sleep in his room, yet with a very passive aggressive - heavy on the aggressive part - warning to ‘never try that goddamn shit again, Simon, don’t fucking test me.’
That bear, too, found a home in his collection. This one was really a turning point for him.
The other two, while painfully dear to him, were shrouded in agonising memories, letting the bloody, nasty bits of his past creep up on him again.
This one, though? This was Laswell’s - it was Kate’s. She’d taken the time to make it by hand, each loop of string infused with a kind of warmth. This one was gentle, was kind.
That was when his collection really ballooned. Suddenly, the stupid toys weren’t violent, leeching memories from before. They were something new, something sweet and delicate and so, so painfully kind. Embarrassingly enough, it became a bit of a comfort, letting the soft trio against his headboard turn into his little quartet. Then a group. And, before he knew it, he practically had an army taking over his bed. He was more than content with it, of course. It was comfortable, at the very least.
And, honestly? It was a bit of a reminder. That he could grow, and change. That the death and pain and fiery hurt wasn’t everything. That, maybe, just maybe, the tragic ending to one chapter didn’t need to taint the rest.
