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autisticlancemcclain · 11 months ago

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“Pass me the — thing.”

“The thing.”

“Yes. The one.”

Hunk’s amusement is evident. “Here’s the thing about capital-T Things, Pidge Podge.”

She makes a face. Ugh, not him too. The annoying nicknames Lance comes up with always seem to end up in other people’s vocabularies. It’s the worst. (They don’t even make sense, either. Her name comes from Pascha, her Hebrew name, because she was tiny even when she was a baby. And Matt is ridiculous. But Lance’s names come from nowhere!)

(…She supposes she’ll allow it, though. Occasionally. Because she’s the best ever, basically, and endlessly benevolent.)

“Things in concept are referential,” Hunk continues, snickering to himself as he dodged her blind kick. “Ergo, you need to reference them. Specifically. Outside of your own brain.”

She makes a noise of frustration, tilting her head in the direction of the scrap pile on Hunk’s work table. “The thing! Shiny! With the— blegh!” She is Focused right now, alright. There are Processes happening in her brain. Words are secondary.

“I’m just going to ignore you now.”

“No! The thing! The thing that looks like a dreidel!”

“There we go,” he says emphatically. She scowls at him. He grins brightly. She holds her glare for a whopping three seconds, which is frankly record-breaking, so. Point to her. “That’s a referential Thing.”

He scoops up the piece and tosses it at her. She catches it without looking (which is wicked cool and something she will subtly mention next time she watches Allura drop something) and sets it on the table top beside her, finishing up a tricky solder. Leaning back to admire her handiwork, which is, indeed, quite handy, her gaze keeps getting pulled to the little part.

“You know, it really does look like a dreidel.” She picks it up by the stem, flicking the little acorn-shaped object and watching it spin. It works like one, too.

Hunk hums. After a few moments, curious at the air newly lacking the sounds of her tinkering, he looks over at her. He purses his lips thoughtfully.

“…What day is it on Earth, do you think?”

Pidge shrugs. “We left in late May. Been a few months, at least.”

“Lance has a watch.”

“Course he does. ‘Cause he’s a big ol’ nerd geek loser.”

Hunk snorts. “Indeed.”

At the same time, without either of them having to say a word, they scramble to their feet, abandoning their projects and rushing out the workroom door.

“Pool?” Hunk asks.

“Nah, training room. He was in the pool this morning.”

Neither of them is particularly fast, but after months of Shiro’s training they can handle their own. They don’t, sprint, per se, because that would be embarrassing and Lance would be all dorky and pleased about it (can’t have that), but they…hustle. Hustle would be the right word. There’s some hastiness about, some purpose to their step.

As they run past the kitchen and finally turn down the corridor to get to the training room, a door opens on the left and someone walks out. Hunk grabs the back of Pidge’s sweater (totally not Keith’s grey hoodie that she stole) to keep her from crashing straight into them.

“Hey, Lance,” Hunk says, smiling brightly. “We were just looking for you!”

Lance, predictably, gets all dorky and pleased about it.

“Well, Lancey-Lance is at your service,” he preens, brushing fake dust off his shoulders. “Of course I am happy to offer my services to such —”

“Why’d you come outta Keith’s room?” Pidge interrupts, squinting.

She’s pretty sure that’s Keith’s room, anyway. The door on the left has a dent on it from when Lance tripped and brained himself on it in their first week of space.

Curiously — oh so curiously — Lance turns a violent shade of red and cringes with his whole entire body.

“Whaaat,” he says, voice cracking so many times she actually winces in reflective sympathy. He laughs nervously. “That’s not — I’m not — Keith isn’t —”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then coughs, then doesn’t bother. Pidge can actually feel the heat pouring off of him, which is so humiliating that she almost decides to be merciful.

“Is Keith also in there?” she says instead, because fuck that.

Lance looks at the floor like he’s considering swan diving onto it. “What did you guys need me for again?” he asks, loudly.

Hunk, too soft from years of close proximity to Lance, takes pity. “We need your watch, dude. What day is it on Earth?”

Lance’s dark eyes go a bit sad, like they always do when someone mentions the E-word. But it’s gone before Pidge can so much as register it, really, and then he’s glancing down at his dork ass bright blue Moana watch and saying, “One twenty-six on December 7th.”

Pidge cheers. Hunk grins.

“Clear your schedule!” Pidge shouts, pumping her fists. “Hanukkah starts in a few hours!”

———

“An…oil…feast?”

“Yeah!” Pidge says enthusiastically. Allura leans forward, intrigued — she loves stories from Earth. Anything from Earth fascinates her, really. “Thousands of years ago, Jews — my people culturally and religiously — had just freed themselves from the cruel rule of a kingdom that resided over them. They wanted to purify the Temple — that’s where practicing Jews go to pray — so they were burning holy oil. But there was only one bottle of sacred oil, which was upsetting, since that would only burn for one night. But miraculously, the oil kept burning for eight nights!”

Allura gasps. “But how?”

Pidge shrugs. “Religious Jews believe it was a miracle from God, who is our holy deity. Whether or not you’re religious though, Hanukkah is celebrated at the end of every year to commemorate Jewish resilience and hope. The oil is our physical way of celebrating, ‘cause it burned for eight days exactly — as long as it takes to make more oil.”

“And so we get to celebrate by eating delicious fried food,” Lance adds, fist-pumping. He grins at Pidge’s raised eyebrows. “My sister-in-law is Jewish, so my neice and nephew are too. We celebrate Hanukkah every year and it rocks.”

Pidge can feel her smile lighting up her body. There are bigger celebrations, and more religiously important ones, but Hanukkah is so much fun. She hasn’t celebrated in too long — it came and went last year before she even noticed, too wrapped up in finding her brother. And the year before that, her and Mom couldn’t…not without Dad and Matt. They couldn’t celebrate with just the two of them, they spent most evenings in their own rooms.

Shiro’s steady hand comes to rest on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She glances up to find him smiling sadly at her, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“We’ll light a candle for each of them,” he murmurs into her hair. “Colleen, too.”

“Is that what’s done?” Coran inquires softly. “Candles lit, in remembrance?”

Pidge hums, leaning back into Shiro. He holds steady, hand staying fast on her shoulder. Keith flashes her one of his quick smiles, small and comforting.

“Yeah. Eight candles, in something called a menorah. One for each night, one for each intention.” She meets Coran’s eyes first, then Allura’s, her own expression determined. “We’ll light a candle for Altea, too.”

“I would like that,” whispers Allura, swallowing.

“I can make the menorah,” Hunk offers, “if you and Lance want to help. Lance has a good eye for design.”

Pidge takes a couple more moments in Shiro’s embrace, soaking up some of his strength. No one interrupts her. Once she feels like she can stand straight again, like her family is tucked neatly where they usually are in the centre of her heart rather than spilling out all over the place, she stands, patting Shiro’s hand as it falls away, and steps towards her friends.

“Yes, let’s do. We’ll need a few things, actually, to get ready. Keith, you think you can paint the right symbols on the dreidel if I describe them to you?”

He nods. “Yep. I’ll draw ‘em out first, it shouldn’t take long. I think I’ve seen them before, anyway.”

“Cool. Allura, Coran, you wanna put up some decorations? Lance can help you out.”

All three enthusiastically agree, rushing off to make do.

“Shiro —” She falters. “Uh, dude, maybe steer clear of the kitchen. Wanna help with the menorah since Lance is on decorations? Then Hunk’ll have more time to cook.”

Shiro pouts, as he always does when he’s teased about his cursed kitchen tendencies, but the twitch of his smile gives him away.

“I guess,” he laments. “I’m sure I could fry latkes without burning the castle down.”

Keith, Pidge, and Hunk shudder in unison.

“Yeah, right,” Keith says. “You remember when you set a pot of water on fire, Hazard Boy? Because I do.”

———

For people who have no idea what they’re doing, the decorations end up looking really nice.

Everything does, actually. By the time Lance’s watch hits six — the time they have all collectively decided will be sundown based on absolutely nothing — everything is prepped and ready to go. Keith got the characters down after a couple tries, and the dreidel looks like any other one Pidge has used before. Lance had, from what Pidge picked up from Allura’s grumbling, channeled his inner festivity dictator to ensure all decorations were as lovely as possible with their limited materials. Of course the menorah Hunk and Pidge created looks beautifully intricate, one of the more gorgeous things Pidge has ever seen even with all the wonky mismatched candles.

“Okay,” Hunk says, clapping his hands together. “If you guys want to set up the table, Lance and I will be finished plating the food shortly. I dunno about you guys, but I’ve been smelling fried food for a couple hours now, and I need to eat.”

“Please,” Pidge groans, because she’s been smelling it too and boy is Hunk ever a head chef.

Everyone rushes to get the table set as quickly as possible. Pidge makes sure to put Lance’s favourite cup (that he has a hissy fit if anyone else so much as looks at, even though it is practically identical to ever other cup except one tiny chip one the bottom that he loves for some reason) next to the chair closest to the door, where Keith always sits, because she has not forgotten the Earlier Incident. If all goes well then something embarrassing will happen for her to witness, which is all she can ask for, really.

“Can someone who is not Allura come help me bring food over?” Hunk calls from the kitchen as Pidge places the last fork. “No offense, Princess, but I watched you and Lance walk into the same door this morning and I’d rather our hard work not end up splatted and inedible on the floor.”

“Offense taken,” says Allura darkly, and Lance’ whining echoes all the way to where they’re standing.

Keith meets Pidge’s eye and snickers.

“I got it, Hunk,” he calls, jogging over to them.

“Absolutely not!” Lance screeches. “There is no way I will allow Mullet to be entrusted with something I am not allowed to —”

He cuts himself off with a loud shriek. Whether Keith finally pinched him quiet or Lance is just shrieking for drama’s sake Pidge will never know, but moments later the red paladin is striding out of the kitchen, heaping bowl in one hand, batting Lance away with the other.

“If you drop that I’ll kill you both,” Hunk promises, setting the heaping plate he’s holding down on the table.

Thankfully, nothing gets dropped (although does it ever come close). Everyone is accounted for and seated and nothing has gone to waste, and Pidge’s stomach is growling.

“Got a little bit of everything,” Hunk says. “Classic latkes, kugel, and sufganiyot. And you mentioned the zippoli and arancini your Nonna used to make, Pidge, so I made some of that too. And Lance made lots of masitas and plátanos.”

“Hope that’s okay,” Lance says, face kind of scrunched. “I know it’s not traditional, but we had it on Hanukkah, and I thought —”

Pidge grins at him. “Looks great, man.”

Everyone takes turns passing food around and loading up their plate. Pidge takes four zippoli. She regrets nothing. She has had none in several years and this looks perfect.

Before anyone starts, all eyes turn to Pidge, so she squeezes her eyes shut and remembers her mother’s blessing: “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam shehakol niyah bidvaro.” She opens her eyes again. “Dig in, everybody.”

No one needs to be told twice. For a while the castle is even shockingly silent, everyone too busy shoving their faces. Keith chokes on latke. Shiro laughs at him until the red on his face is from more than a lack of oxygen.

“I love human food,” gushes Allura, inhaling more plátanos. “You guys got to eat like this every day?”

“Unless you lived with someone who regular fucks up ramen noodles,” Keith says pointedly, dodging Shiro’s under-the-table-kick.

“I think Numbers Two and Three might just be talented in the kitchen,” Coran responds. Both Hunk and Lance beam at the praise.

After dinner — and lordy it does not take long to polish it off — they clear the plates away, tidying up the table, as Pidge sets out the menorah. She carefully sets out the candles they have gathered, arranging and re-arranging the order. When she’s satisfied, she picks up the smallest candle, thin green stripes running up its sides, and places it in the space at the far right. She picks up the shamash — choosing the thickest and tallest one — and accepts the lighter Keith offers her. Once it is flaming, she holds it outwards, and begins to softly recite the blessings she memorized so long ago:

“Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah. Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, she-asah nisim laavoteinu v’imoteinu bayamim hahaeim baz’man hazeh. Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh.”

She says the words slowly, carefully, allowing herself to feel the shape of them on her tongue. They are familiar. They are heavy. They get caught in her throat, tangled, and stay there until tears begin to trickle down her cheeks, softening the way out. Her voice shakes, but she feels her own strength spreading through her like the heat of the shamesh candle.

“Make it home to me, Matt,” she whispers, as she lights the first candle.

———

“Okay, there is no fucking way.”

Pidge cackles at Keith’s indignant protest, accepting Lance’s sharp high-five and dragging in the entire pot of tokens again.

The two of them are absolutely fucking killing it. Their token piles are high. Keith has had to begrudgingly ask Lance for a loan no less than six times. Everyone else is dangerously low, except for Coran, who’s doing alright.

Pidge thinks this is righteous. As the two youngest, she and Lance should be winning by birthright, basically.

“Suck it, Kogane,” she says gleefully. She flicks a token at him. “Take some charity.”

Keith scowls at her, but takes the token because he is too broke not to. It is greatly amusing.

Ha! Loser.

The game shouldn’t last as long as it does, but somehow it keeps going for hours. Pidge suspects Shiro has several dozen tokens up his sleeve and is cheating. Allura may also be using alchemy to make more tokens appear. Either way, Pidge and Lance’s hordes are steadily increasing, and the menorah has long since been blown out, and the food has settled in everyone’s stomach, and Pidge’s head keeps drooping.

“Think it’s just you and me, Pidge-Podge,” Lance says softly. Someone tucks her hair behind her ear, she’s not sure who. Her eyes might be closed. “What say you we call it a tie, huh?”

“There’s no tie in dreidel,” she argues. “We gotta finish.”

“I’m thinking we play again tomorrow,” Coran suggests. “I’m sure when you’re fully awake you can destroy Number Four much more efficiently.”

“Hey,” says Number Four in question, indignantly.

Pidge manages a smile. Keith sticks his tongue out back at her, and the next thing she knows there are arms around her waist and she’s airborne. She buries her face in a strong shoulder and pretends, secretly, it’s her father, even though she knows it’s not.

“Say goodnight, dork,” whispers Shiro. He pauses, adjusting slightly. “Oof.”

“You’re getting old,” says Keith gleefully.

“Respect your elders,” hisses Lance, accompanied by a swift punch to Keith’s shoulder.

“Ow!” Keith complains, but interestingly he only pouts at Lance instead of maiming him. “It’s Shiro! He’s not even an elder, he’s six! You —”

“Goodnight, Pidge,” say Hunk and Allura, loudly.

Pidge smiles. Her voice is half-buried in Shiro’s shirt. “Night.”

She doesn’t remember the walk to her room, but she feels it when she’s laid down, when blankets are fluffed over her and a kiss is pressed to her forehead.

“Sleep well, Katie,” whispers a voice, and the cool metal of the fingers brushing her hair are soothing. “Love you, kiddo. Happy Hanukkah.”

She falls asleep the the click of her door closing and a warmth burning hot in her heart.

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cod-thoughts · 1 month ago

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Day 14 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1k

Relationships: team as family

Tags: sleepy ghost, fluff, humour, crack-treated seriously

“Probably,” Soap agreed, pulling out his own phone. “Reminds me of that time I found him under the table. Thought he was dead at first, but nope—just asleep.” Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Under a table? Really?” Soap grinned. “Aye. Had a right laugh about it. You’d think he’d learn to find a proper spot.” OR Ghost falls asleep in the most random places; the team reminisce Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 This was a response to this lovely ask hopefully i did you justice anon o7

The safehouse was quiet. After their latest mission, the 141 had scattered to wind down. Soap sat at the table, idly flicking through a magazine, while Gaz stretched out on the couch, his head resting against a pillow. Price stood by the window, arms crossed, ever-watchful for any signs of trouble.

In the small bed tucked into the corner of the room, Ghost was fast asleep, propped awkwardly against the wall, head tilted back slightly, and arms folded across his chest. The sight was familiar, but still comical—an intimidating figure utterly at ease, snoring lightly.

“Out like a light,” Soap muttered, smirking as he glanced at Ghost.

“Good,” Price grunted, moving closer to the bed. “He needs it. Hasn’t slept properly in days.”

Gaz looked up from his phone. “Reckon this is the longest he’s been down in a while.”

“Probably,” Soap agreed, pulling out his own phone. “Reminds me of that time I found him under the table. Thought he was dead at first, but nope—just asleep.”

Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Under a table? Really?”

Soap grinned. “Aye. Had a right laugh about it. You’d think he’d learn to find a proper spot.”

“Ghostbusters”

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Oi, found the big lad again. Under the bloody table this time.

G-Force (Gaz): Oh, for real? Where’s the proof?

Old Man (Price): What’s he doing under a table? Taking cover in his sleep?

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): See for yourself.

Image attachment: Ghost curled up under the briefing room table, one arm over his face, completely knocked out.

G-Force (Gaz): You’ve got to be kidding me. How does he fit under there?

Old Man (Price): Leave him there. Unless Suds burns the place down again.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): That was one time!

G-Force (Gaz): He’ll wake up thinking he’s still in the field. Don’t mess with him.

Old Man (Price): Exactly. Let him sleep.

Price chuckled, crossing his arms. “Well, he certainly hasn’t learned yet. What about you, Gaz? You must have some funny stories.”

Gaz nodded, chuckling softly. “Yeah, I remember that time I found him in his office. Thought he was just deep into some files, but nope—out cold.”

The laughter bubbled up between them as they shared the memory. “Didn’t even wake him,” Gaz said, shaking his head in amusement. “Just left him be and went about my business.”

Big Gaz Lad (Gaz): You lot are never going to believe where I found Ghost.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Let me guess, under a rock?

Old Man (Price): In a dumpster?

Big Gaz Lad (Gaz): Close! In his office, sprawled across his paperwork.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Is he snoring?

Big Gaz Lad (Gaz): Like a bloody chainsaw.

Image attachment: Ghost face down on the desk, arms hanging off the sides, a pen still gripped in his hand.

Old Man (Price): Can’t believe he made himself at home with all that mess office.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): At least he’s not under the desk this time.

Big Gaz Lad (Gaz): True. I guess that’s progress?

Old Man (Price): Just let him sleep. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled when he wakes up to a mountain of paperwork.

“We’ve seen him sleep in the oddest places,” Gaz added, leaning back in his chair. “Can’t believe he hasn’t ended up in a bin yet, still waiting to capture that one.”

“Speaking of bins,” Soap said, an amused glint in his eye. “Didn’t you find him in your bed once, Cap?”

“Ghostbusters”

Old Man (Price): Ghost is in my bed. Out cold.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Guess you’re bunking somewhere else tonight.

G-Force (Gaz): Yeah, don’t even think about waking him.

Old Man (Price): I wasn’t planning on it. Can I crash with one of you?

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Got space here. C’mon over.

G-Force (Gaz): Same here. Just bring your pillow, mate.

“Best part was he didn’t even care,” Price chuckled. “Just rolled over and kept snoring.”

Soap laughed, shaking his head. “You’d think he’d have a more dignified approach to sleep, but no. Just plops down wherever.”

They all glanced at Ghost again, still blissfully unaware of their conversation. Gaz felt warmth in his chest, knowing how well they all understood each other.

“Remember that time we were making our way back to you guys from that base, and he fell asleep in the middle of the debriefing?” Soap said, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face.

"Ghostbusters”

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Lads, Ghost is out cold during the debriefing.

Old Man (Price): No way!

G-Force (Gaz): You’re kidding me.

Scrub-a-Dub (Soap): Nope. Head down on the table, drooling and everything.

Image attachment: Ghost with his head down on the table, oblivious to the open video call in front of him.

Old Man (Price): We should just let end it, pick it back up tomorrow lads?

G-Force (Gaz): Absolutely. Let him wake up when he’s ready.

Gaz laughed heartily, picturing the scene. “Just snored right through it!”

Price shook his head, chuckling. “That was one for the books. I thought I’d have to ask Suds to carry him out.”

“Well, he’d probably have preferred that,” Soap added, a teasing glint in his eyes. “A hero’s exit.”

“Right, like he’d ever admit it,” Gaz said, grinning. “Can you imagine?”

They all shared a laugh, the camaraderie warming the space between them. It felt good to reminisce, a reminder of the bond they shared, even in the chaos of their lives.

As the laughter faded, the room settled into a comfortable silence. Ghost remained deep in slumber, and the three of them relaxed, grateful for this rare moment of peace together.

“Glad he’s finally resting,” Price said quietly, leaning back in his chair. “We all could use it.”

“Definitely,” Gaz agreed, stretching out on the couch. “It’s good to see him like this, even if it’s a bit random.”

Soap nodded, gently adjusting the blanket around Ghost. “Not the first time we’ve kept watch over him. Just part of the job.”

“Ghost Watch, as always,” Price said with a grin.

They sat in the calm of the safehouse, a sense of camaraderie filling the air. No teasing, no interruptions—just the unspoken understanding that this was a moment to cherish.

And as they continued to keep an eye on their lieutenant, they shared quiet smiles, grateful to have each other.

#call of duty #cod #call of duty fanfic #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #q's 31 days of cod #q writes #team as family #141 as family #task force 141 #this was super fun #cod fanfic

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