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At age 5, the youngest age, she can remember getting a card with pink glittery text and a cartoon princess on the cover. She sat in the living room; his family surrounded her, smiling brightly. Her hair was done up in pigtails that pulled at her scalp, and the princess dress her mom insisted she wear was itchy and uncomfortable.
“See, Soph, it’s a princess like you!” Her mother grinned, taking photos on the family camera. The flash was too bright and hurt her eyes, but she pulled a small smile. “Don’t you like it?”
She paused, staring down at the shiny mess in her hands. “Can I have one with a knight next year?” She asked softly, her voice small and hesitant.
Everyone stopped, staring at her wide-eyed, her mother’s grin turning into a sharp frown. “Excuse me?”
“Can I have a knight on it next year?” She asked again, wondering if she simply hadn’t heard her.
“Now, Sophie, why would you want that?” She didn’t hear the hardness in her mother’s voice, the slight edge to the words.
“Because I fit better as a knight than a princess!” She smiled brightly, standing up to pose bravely. She was definitely more attuned to a knight, always playing around in the yard and picking up bugs or worms. Princesses played tea party, she liked to play adventure.
She was startled when she heard her mother bark out a grim laugh. Sophie stared at her mother with wide eyes, confused by her reaction.
“Now, sweetheart, you’re so silly. You’ll always be my little princess!”
“But… But I’m a knight.”
“No, honey, you’re a princess. I mean, look at what you’re wearing!” She looked down at the itchy dress and plastic heels that hurt her feet. Sophie huffed softly in annoyance, a deep pout on her face.
“You wanted me to wear this!” Her mother waved her off gently, instead shifting attention to gifts.
She received even more princess dresses and a brand-new tea set that year.
—
Sophie quickly learned not to argue with her mother after the incident, staying quiet as he got more bedazzled birthday cards. Each one turned his stomach more than the last. Things changed when he turned seven, his older sister Freya sneaking into his room before his birthday party.
“Psst, Soph!” She whispered, slipping her head through the crack in the door, a goofy smile plastered on her face.
“Freya! Scared me, you eejit!” She huffed, crossing her arms and furrowing her brows in an attempt to look intimidating. Her sister only laughed at her, fully entering the room, pulling her into a headlock, and ruffling her thick brown hair. Sophie shouted, attempting to shove the girl off her. “What do you want?”
“I got you something!” She pulled an envelope from her pocket and placed it in her hands. Sophie looked at her in confusion, a brow raised hesitantly.
“How did you get this?”
“I made it, you bawbag!”
“Don’t let Mom hear you say that, or it’s fifteen Hail Mary’s.” Sophie teased, finally moving to open the envelope. She pulled out the card and stared at it silently for a moment, just looking at the drawing.
“I know it’s not as nice as the ones you get from the store, but I tried…” Freya didn’t even realize it, but tears were welling up in Sophie’s eyes. “Soph?”
“Did… Did you make this? For me?”
“Aye, I remembered you asking for a knight card when you were younger. Thought it was about time.” Freya smiled softly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Shaky hands opened the handmade card, more tears slowly pooling in her eyes.
‘Happy Birthday, Soph. I love you, your big sister.’ That was all it said, but with so little written, it spoke volumes. Sophie sniffled softly, wiping at the tears and leaning in to hug her big sister.
“Thank you, Frey, I can’t… I just… Thank you.”
“Course, Sophie.” They remained in the hug until their mother called them both downstairs to begin the party. Sophie got more pink glittery cards, but the handmade card would remain her favorite.
—
When she reached nine, things started shifting into place and becoming clearer for her. Her mother pushed her to join the theatre, the school putting on a production of Cinderella. She remembers standing in the audition room, nervously clutching the script in her hands.
The director smiled softly at her, “It’s no pressure, Sophie, just do your best.” When the young girl continued to stand there nervously, too afraid to speak, the director let out a gentle sigh. “Tell me, what role are you trying for?”
“Mom wants me to be Cinderella.”
The director hummed softly, “Aye, but what do you want to play?”
Sophie stared at her in confusion; what did she want to play? She’d never had a choice like this before. She stared at the script briefly before finally mustering up her courage.
“The Duke.”
The director blinked briefly before a small grin slipped onto her face. “The Duke, huh? Why’s that?”
“He’s funny, and he gets to wear that cool costume with the funny shoulder things!”
“Epaulettes?”
“Aye!” The young girl grinned at her, a strange excitement in her veins.
“Alright, give it a shot. Read me a line for the Duke.”
Sophie did her best, putting her all into the audition. When the cast list was released, she searched for her name. She wasn’t cast as Cinderella, no skin off her teeth.
“A girl is playing the Duke?” A boy questioned, confusion etched in his tone. She gasped, rushing back to look, finding her name sprawled beside the Duke. A bright smile lit up on her face, giddy excitement filling her.
When she arrived home to deliver the news, her mother’s face dropped and grew stony.
“Why would you play a boy role?”
“Well… we have more girls than guys in the cast.”
Her mother huffed softly but ultimately said nothing, returning to her cooking. Those months acting as the Duke were some of the best of her life; something about it felt right. Her mother forbade her from cutting her hair for the role but settled for pulling her hair back into a slick ponytail to mimic shorter hair.
Everything felt right.
That year, her birthday card featured Cinderella on the cover.
—
When she reached twelve, she grew more uncomfortable with herself—staring at the mirror, seeing her chest fill out. It sent her stomach turning and thrashing, making her wish for nothing more than to smash it back down flat. Instead, she settled for wearing two sports bras, hoping it would cover up her discomfort.
It felt too tight on her chest, but she would endure anything not to feel that same crushing weight when she looked in the mirror. She made a beeline for her mother when she returned home from school. She was sewing some of her father’s pants on the couch, humming softly.
“Mom, can I get the uniform pants instead of the skirt? This thing is uncomfortable.”
Her mother looked up at her, a brow raised. “You’ve never complained about it before.”
“Yeah well… things have changed…”
Her mother’s eyes lit up with recognition at the words, and she softly patted the seat beside her. Sophie carefully moved to sit beside her, her mother wrapping comforting arms around her and running a gentle hand through her hair.
“It’s normal for things to change around this age. It’s a gift from God, mo ghraidh. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But what if… what if I don’t want the changes?”
“Like what?” Her mother’s voice was so soft and open that she might finally listen.
“My chest, I don’t like it! I don’t want it to grow.”
Her mother hummed, pausing her petting. “Now, Sophie, it’s natural, and you can’t stop it. It’s a gift, lass. You must be grateful for what God has given you.”
“But I want it to stay flat! Like a boy’s!”
Her mother went stiff, abruptly pulling away and grabbing her shoulder’s in a harsh hold. Her gaze was furious and tense, her teeth clenched. “Don’t you dare say that! You hear me; you get that thought out of your head before it can take root.”
“What? What’s wrong with what I said?”
“Do not question your mother. Get that foolish thought out of your head and go to your room.”
“But, mom-”
“Now, Sophie!”
Sophie shut herself up quickly, retreating to her room with tear-filled eyes. She was so confused; what was wrong with her head?
Her birthday card had pink crosses plastered all over it. “Happy Birthday, daughter,” pasted in red ink.
—
She finally realized what she was missing when she reached fourteen, meeting a young boy who had just transferred to her small catholic school. All the teachers called him by a girl’s name and always sneered at him behind his back. Sophie grew confused, deciding to get to the bottom of it.
She approached the boy at lunch when he was sitting all alone.
“Hi, I’m Sophie! You’re John, right?”
The boy looked at her as if she'd grown another head. “You’re not supposed to call me that…”
“Oh, I’m sorry! Is it Ava, then?” She noticed the sharp wince the boy gave at the name. “You don’t seem like you like that name.”
“I… I don’t, but you’re not supposed to call me John. You could get in trouble.”
Sophie let out a chuckle, rolling her eyes gently as she began peeling her orange. “Psh, I always get in trouble, no skin off my teeth. So, why do you have two names?”
“Ava’s my deadname, John’s my real one.”
Sophie stared at her with a confused expression, blinking slowly. “Dead… deadname? What’s that?”
“It means I don’t go by that name anymore.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m trans.”
Sophie grew even more confused, setting down the orange to give the boy her full attention. “What does ‘trans’ mean?”
“Uh, it means I don’t identify with the gender I was assigned at birth.”
“Wait… you can do that?”
John sighed, pulling the food around on his face with a downturn expression. “You’re not supposed to.”
“Says who?”
“Says God.”
“Where? I haven’t seen any bible verses about being ‘trans.’”
John huffed in annoyance, growing more irritated as the conversation progressed. “I don’t know! The nuns told me that, though, so that means it’s true.”
The conversation trailed off, the pair sitting in awkward silence as they ate, unsure of what to say. Sophie had so many questions swimming around in her head. She wanted, no need, to ask this boy about everything, but he already seemed annoyed.
“So… what's your favorite subject?” She asked instead, hoping to ease the boy’s tense posture. He stared at her in confusion for a few moments.
“Um… history?”
“Cool! I like chemistry! I know we’re not supposed to be learning that yet, but I got put in an accelerated learning course! Though, I might be getting pushed back to regular science because I accidentally caused an explosion in the lab yesterday…”
The boy let out a sharp laugh, staring at her in amusement. “How’d you manage that?”
“Oh! Well, we were working with ethanol and-”
The two quickly became friends, meeting up every day for lunch to discuss anything.
“John… how did you know you were trans?”
The boy stopped mid-bite, blinking slowly at her, a look of confusion on his face.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’m just curious!”
The boy hummed softly, thinking deeply about it. “I guess… I’ve just always known, even before I knew what being trans was.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like… I always played with the other boys in my neighborhood. I hate dresses and skirts with a passion. I wanted my hair to be cut short and to be called a boy. It took my parents some adjusting, but eventually, they learned to live with it.”
“It was that easy?”
“Hell no!” Sophie shushed him quickly, glancing around for a surprise Nun to pop up and scold them for profanity. “No, it wasn’t easy at all. It took years before my parents even started using the right pronouns, let alone calling me their son. I just had to learn to be patient and that this was as new for them as it was for me.”
Sophie hummed softly, turning his words over in her head. Something about what he’d said struck a chord, but she still wasn’t entirely sure what. They said their goodbyes and promised to meet up the next day again.
John transferred to another school by the end of the semester, and Sophie got the same glittery pink card as last year.
—
She came to terms with herself when she turned sixteen. After a failed relationship with a boy from her neighborhood, she realized maybe she needed to stop lying to herself and accept what was staring right in front of her. Sophie carefully crept into her sister’s room, finding her still awake and scribbling furiously on a homework assignment.
“Freya…?”
The girl was startled, her pencil dropping down, and she turned to face her younger sister.
“Soph! You scared the shite out of me! What are you doing awake?” Her sister glanced at the clock, reading a few minutes past one.
“I… I need to talk to you…” The small voice instantly put Freya on edge, and she quickly abandoned her schoolwork, moving to sit on her bed. Sophie moved to sit beside her, fidgeting with her hands.
“What’s wrong?”
Sophie hesitated, unsure of how to word her thoughts.
“Do you ever feel like… like you were born wrong?”
Freya tilted her head in confusion, humming softly for the girl to continue speaking.
“Like… this isn’t right, you aren’t right. Almost like some kind of mistake was made.”
“Soph, you know God doesn’t make mistakes…”
Sophie grew frustrated; that was the same sentence that had been plaguing her thoughts for days, and she was tired of it. “But what if he does!”
“Now hold on…”
“He does because he made one with me!”
The pair sat in silence, processing what was just said. Freya looked at her with concerned confusion. “What do you mean, Sophie?”
The young girl stuttered, unsure of where else to go from here. Tears brimmed in her eyes, thousands of thoughts racing in her head.
“I’m a mistake, Freya…”
“No, no.” Her sister surged forward, wrapping comforting arms around her as she sobbed into her shoulder. “You are not a mistake, Soph.”
“I don’t like it when you call me that…”
“Soph? Would you rather me call you Sophie?”
She sniffled softly, “No, I don’t like that name at all…”
Her sister sat there silently, thinking over everything and doing her best to remain calm. Everything felt so confusing yet so obvious in hindsight.
“What… what would you rather me call you?”
The small girl shrugged her shoulder, burying her face deeper into her shoulder.
“Well, I can’t just call you nothing.”
After a few minutes, a weak voice spoke up.
“John?”
Freya inhaled sharply, her fears confirmed. Tears welled up in her own eyes, and she held on to her… sibling even tighter.
“Okay… okay, I can do that…” She hesitated, “Why do you want to be called that?”
More choked sobs escaped the trembling form in her arms.
“I think I’m a boy, Freya.”
Freya buried her face into her sibling's hair, tears welling up in her own eyes.
“It’s going to be okay… It’ll be okay.”
That year, she received another handmade card and her usual pink monstrosity. A new knight was drawn on the cover. ‘You’ll always be my sibling. It’ll be okay.’
—
John was forced to come out only weeks after his sixteenth birthday. He’d finally ordered a chest binder and rushed to grab it from the mail before his parents could find out. He struggled to put it on, that same crushing feeling he was familiar with unable to compare the restrictiveness of the binder. It hurt to breathe but he could manage to look at himself in the mirror without immediately recoiling. He stared in the mirror and saw… someone. Still not himself but it was… someone, familiar.
He’d never breathe again if he could even have just a taste of this feeling.
He slipped his shirt back over his head and continued on with his day, the heaviness in his mind shifting slightly. For once, he felt… hopeful.
He felt like another piece of himself had slotted into place.
When he sat down at the dinner table to eat, his hands folded in prayer like a good catholic boy should, he felt his mother’s piercing gaze on him. It was tense and silent, his sister having left and gone to college, leaving just his mother and father at the table with him.
“What are you wearing?”
“Um… a t-shirt?”
His mother’s brows shifted down, growing annoyed. “No, underneath it.”
“My bra?”
His father coughed awkwardly, shifting in his chair as he grew uncomfortable with the conversation.
“You’re chest is so… flat?” His mother questioned, squinting in suspicion. “You’re not trying to mutilate your body like those trannies out there, are you?”
John flinched, staring at her with wide eyes. He felt his breath quicken but he couldn’t suck in enough air with the binder restricting his air flow. “No…”
His mother didn’t srop it, glaring at him now. “You know it’s a sin, don’t you Sophie? God doesn’t make mistakes. Those poor souls are simply lost. You cannot change nature.”
John gulped softly, staring down at his plate as he shifted the food around.
“You know, they had one at your school a few years ago. What was her name, Ava?”
“His name was John…”
His mother inhaled a sharp breath, her voice growing tight. “Excuse me?”
“His… his name was John. He was my friend?”
“What did he fill your head with ideas, Sophie? You’re a woman.”
John tensed, clutching his silverware in tight fists. “He didn’t fill my head with anything.”
His mother pursed her lips, growing more irritated, looking to her husband for support. The man seemed lost, looking between the pair, completely confused.
“David, a little help?” She urged, pointing her head towards her child.
The man blink before clearing his throat. “Um, what your mother said, lass.”
She groaned in annoyance, muttering about how her husband was no help. “Sophie, God created men and women in his own image. You can’t change that.”
“Well… technically you can.”
His mother’s face grew even more cold. “And how would you know that?”
“John… told me?”
“Oh, so Ava’s word is gospel, huh? Not the words of your Lord? I thought I raised you better than to question our savior.”
“It’s not like that, mother…”
“It seems pretty clear to me, Sophie.” His mother was furious, her face red with anger as she glared daggers at her child. “That’s it, we’re sending you to the church, now. You need to be cleansed of these sinful ideas.”
“Mother!” He shouted, appalled at what she was saying.
“Now, Sophie. Get your shoes.”
He sat frozen, staring at his father with a desperate look for support. His father said nothing, still looking between the two at a loss.
“Sophie, now.”
John took a deep breath and grit his teeth. “My name is John.”
The table grew still, silent. His mother staring at him with wide eyes as his father’s fork dropped onto the plate. John could feel his heart racing in his chest, nausea filling his stomach.
“My name is John and I’m a boy.” He’d hoped the confession would lift a weight off his chest but instead it only served to crush him even further.
“My daughter is not a tranny.”
“I’m not your daughter, I’m your son.” He gritted out, growing more irritated at being belittled.
“No, you are not. Sophie, get your shoes on. We are going to get you fixed.”
“I don’t need to be fixed, mom! I’m perfect the way I am? Didn’t God always say we are ‘fearfully and wonderfully made?’”
“It also says that God doesn’t make mistakes… clearly that’s wrong because I’m looking at one.”
John felt his throat close up, his chest seizing up. Scalding tears slipped down his cheeks, burning the skin with salt. He shook his head softly in disbelief, his mother hadn’t said that. She would never say that, not about one of her own children. His mind was making up things, she would never say that.
“Get out of our house.”
John fled the house that night with only the clothes on his back and all his important documents clutched in hand. When he arrived at the recruitment office, his clothes were dripping with rain, the papers slightly damp despite his best attempts at shielding them.
“How can we help you?”
“I’d like to enlist.”
“Alright, what’s your name?”
The boy stood there motionless for a few moments, staring at the birth certificate in his hands.
“John… John MacTavish.”
He didn’t receive a birthday card that year.
—
He’d graduated bootcamp swiftly, pushing himself into service as quickly as possible. He’d made quickly friends, found a home. He’d been blessed with good health care, immiately getting onto horomones and saving a date for top surgery. Things finally seemed to be going right for himself.
Everything came crashing down the week after his birthday.
He’d been shoved into an operation the day before his eighteen birthday, keeping him away for days. When he’d finally arrived back on base, he felt drained and gross. He desperately needed a shower and to sleep for the next month. His body moved on autopilot, putting away his gear, cleaning his guns, and heading towards his room.
“Oi, there you are!” A fellow private shouted out, a bright smile on her face. He glanced at her, humming in greeting but still trugging towards his barracks. “Hey, you got a letter while you were away!”
He paused in his steps, slowly turning to look at her with wide eyes. “A letter?”
“Yep, all the way from Scotland! Think it’s from your family, but they put the wrong name on it. You’re lucky you’re the only person on base with the last name ‘MacTavish.’” She laughed, turning to continue on her way.
John felt his stomach turn in anguish, anxiety clawing at his stomach. Now, his walk to his bunk felt like a death march. He felt like an inmate on death row, awaiting his final scentencing.
When he stepped into the rooms, he spotted several men mingling. Some were playing cards, others napping, just longuing about. He hesitated before finally stepping up to his bunk, finding a bright pink envelope on the pillow. He sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his chest cave in.
“MacTavish! What’s with the pansy postage?” One man jeered, a smirk on his stuck up face.
“Away and bile yer heid, Jacobs.” He grumbled, shaky hands picking up the envelope. He filled it over, revealing the familiar name scrawled across the front in big letters.
‘Sophie MacTavish.’
“Fucking hell…” He grumbled, rubbing a hand down his face. John shoved the letter into a drawer, out of sight out of mind. He still needed some sleep and a few days to recuperate before he could even think about opening the damned thing. He fell back into the motions, pushing the letter to the back of his mind. He’d all about forgotten it even existed.
“Hey, what was that letter about anyways?” Until he was rudely reminded one night while struggling to sleep. A head peeked out from the top bunk, staring down at him with a curious expression.
“Nothing. Just junk mail.”
“You sure?”
“Aye, now go to sleep.” He shifted, laying on his other side to block out the other man. He sucked in deep breaths, doing his best to keep the panic welling up at bay. He felt nauseous and off center, the letter burning a hole in his drawer. After a few minutes, he grew too irritated and growled, sitting up and ripping open the door. The letter laid on top, sitting their ominously.
He snatched it up and abruptly left the barracks, rushing to the nearest bathroom and locking himself in the furthest stall. He sat heavily on the toilet seat, clutching the envelope in shaky hands. He couldn’t do this, there was no way he could do this.
John leaned his head back to rest against the wall, closing his eyes and just breathing for a few minutes. He knew what was inside, he just didn’t want to accept it.
Finally, he heard the sound of paper ripping, his eyes still clutched tight as he opened the envelope.
‘Dear Sophie,
You’ll always be our daughter. Remember, God doesn’t make mistakes.
Love, your family.’
John ripped the paper to shreds and flushed it down the toilet.
—
The cards kept coming for the next four years, even as he climbed the ranks. He had settled nicely into the sergeant positon, feeling a deep sense of acomplihsment at all he’s achieved in so little time. He’d even earned the title of youngest candidate to pass SAS selection.
He was sat on a plane, flying to straight to Credenhill to meet with Captain Price. He could feel nerves shifting in his gut but remained calm, only fidgeting a little. He was smart, he knew what he was doing. He’d been in this game for six years. He could handle this.
As soon as the plane touched down and he caught sight of Price’s sergeant, Gaz, he realized he could infact NOT do this.
“Oh, steaming bloody Jesus…” He muttered out, gritting his teeth as he approached the other man.
He smiled brightly at him, putting on facade of total confidence.
“John MacTavish?”
“Call me Soap. You must be Gaz.”
“Soap? Hm…” The fellow sergeant hummed gently, a smirk slipping onto his face. “How the hell you’d get that name?”
“Sorry, classified.” He said, holding his head high like he owned the place. Gaz looked at him with a slightly offended expression, raising a brow at him. Finally, Soap broke out into chuckles. “I’m pulling your leg, mate. I got it because I’m great at cleaning house.”
Gaz whistled lowly, smiling softly at him. “You’ll fit in nicely. Come on, I got to run you through a short weapons demonstration before you can meet the Captain.”
Soap followed him without another word, following the motions and passing with flying colors. Before long, Gaz was giving him the okay and nudging him to follow once more. The stopped infront of another aircraft carrier, a small group waiting in the archway. In the middle stood the captain in all his glory.
Gaz moved to stand beside him, whispering softly in his ear. Price’s eyes lit up in amusement and raised a brow at the sergeant. “Right… what the hell kind of name is Soap anyway? How’d a muppet like you pass selection?” He teased, a glimmer in his eyes as he flicked away his cigar.
“Straight into business, on me gentlemen.”
The man went through the motions, explaining the obstacle course in detail before sending Soap off. “Make sure you beat 19 seconds. That’s the current record.”
By the time he finished, he was huffing like a dog, wiping the sweat off his brow. He heard an annoyed shout before someone rushed up to him.
“How the hell did you beat my record!” Gaz grumbled, his brows furrowed.
“I did?”
Price chuckled in amuesment, stepping up to them now. “15 seconds, lad.”
“Holy shit, I did!” Soap cheered, a bright smile on his face.
“Enough celebrating, we need to roll out. Everyone load up!” Price called out, already turning to head for the awaiting helicopter.
Gaz smiled before suddenly stopping, “Oh, this was sent here. Think it’s for you.”
A white envelope was placed in his hand, ‘MacTavish’ scrawled across the front. John blinked slowly at it before shoving it in his vest, shoving it out of his mind.
“Thanks mate, let’s go.”
When he finally got a moment, he opened the letter. No bright pink letters, no glitter. It’s simple black and white, no other drawings or imagry on the cover.
‘Happy Birthday. We love you and we miss you.’
—
Guilt crushed Soap, unsure of what to do as he paces the floor of his room. He’d received the letter three weeks ago. He’d never considered making an acutal reply to the cards before, but now… things were different. The card was different. It could mean something.
Or maybe it doesn’t.
He groans before finally sitting down at his desk, ripping a page from his sketch book.
‘Thanks for the card.’
Short and sweet, that’s all my deserve. He seals and sends the letter before he can second guess himself. Maybe it’ll put a stop to the birthday cards.
—
It did not. Even now, three years later, they still have been sending the same black and white letters. Soap is now a sergeant on the elite taskforce 141. He’s made a permanent home within their ranks. He’s got a captain who’s like a father, Gaz like the brother he’s never had, and Ghost…
Well, Ghost is different…
Still, the cards haven’t stopped.
“Happy birthday. Be safe!”
“We love you so much. Please be safe out there. We’re proud of you.”
“Your sister misses you deeply. We hope to see you at Christmas this year. We love you, happy birthday.”
Each one sent a deeper sting to his soul than the last. He… He hadn’t realized how deeply he missed his family until the latteres had changed. Now, he didn’t know what to do. Hell, they’d asked him to attend Christmas this year. He hadn’t had a proper Christmas in almost ten years now.
The lieutant found his pathetic self splayed across the couch in their rec room, arm covering his eyes as he groan.
“You hung over or something, Johnny?”
“I wish, Lt. It’d be better than this.”
He heard the sound of the kettle being filled with water. Fucking Brits and their tea.
“Anything I can help with, sergeant?”
“No, sir. My own issues to work out.”
The lieutenat paused, approaching his miserable figure.
“Then, anything I can help out with, Johnny.” His voice had softened, less authoritarian and more… friendly. The sergeant finally peaked out from his arm, taking in the sight of the soft balaclava on his superior’s face. “What’s going on?”
“It’s… it’s my family. They want me home for Christmas…”
Ghost hummed gently, sitting on the chair beside the couch. “And that’s a problem?”
“Aye, I haven’t seen them, any of them, in nine years. We… we didn’t leave things off on the best of terms. I’m not sure it’ll all be magically solved if I do go visit.”
“How so?”
Johnny hums softly, holding the newest envelope in his hands.
“They can’t even use my name on the letters.”
Ghost raises a brow, looking at him in confusion. He gently reaches out a hand for the envelope, not demanding only asking. Soap hesitates for a moment before passing over the letter.
The lieutenant scans the writing before humming softly once more.
“I’m going to assume this is about your identity?”
Of course his lieutenant knew, why wouldn’t he? He’s his superior, he’s got access to all his records. At least, the ones that are buried under layers of red tape.
“Aye, they… didn’t take it very well.”
“Have they improved at all over the years?”
Johnny hesitates, pursing his lips in thought.
“I suppose? They used to send me pink letters, covered in glitter, and rambling on about me being their daughter. Now they’re all black and white and avoid all mention of gender… it’s… maybe not improvement but it’s something.”
Ghost nods gently, scanning over the letter once more.
“Give them a chance to prove themselves.”
“You think I should go visit?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean give them a chance to prove they’re really changing, accepting you.”
“But how?”
Ghost stood up, hearing the kettle screaming and wailing. “You’ll know it when you see it.” He sipped his tea, brushing past Johnny with a gently hand in his hair before he left the room.
His answers comes in the form a letter a few weeks after Christmas.
“Sad we didn’t see you at Christmas last year, but there’s always time. We love you, J. Please be safe out there.”
It’s crazy what a simple letter, in place of a name, can do to a person. Johnny found himself breaking down in tears as he clutched the card.
—
The next year, the card is a soft blue. All that’s written on the inside is, “Happy Birthday, son.”
Johnny comes to Christmas that year.