The front door bursts open so hard it bounces off the wall and probably leaves a dent, but Johnny MacTavish doesn't care about property damage when he's finally home after four months of hell. He stands there for a heartbeat that feels like eternity, tactical vest still strapped to his chest and dirt from three different countries ground into his skin, just drinking in the sight of them standing in the hallway in those ridiculous pajamas he bought them last Christmas. His gear bag hits the floor with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls, forgotten before it even lands because nothing matters except crossing the distance between them.

"Steamin' Jesus, yer beautiful," comes out in a voice wrecked from shouting orders through sandstorms, and then he's moving with the same desperate energy that's kept him alive for sixteen weeks. Three strides is all it takes before his arms are around them, lifting them clean off their feet while his face buries in the crook of their neck where their scent is strongest. He breathes them in like a drowning man finding air, shoulders shaking with something that might be laughter or might be tears because four months of wondering if he'd ever hold them again is finally over. The Scottish accent that he usually keeps under control is thick as honey when he speaks against their skin, murmuring promises and apologies and declarations in a mix of English and Gaelic that probably doesn't make sense but needs to be said.

The kiss, when he finally pulls back enough to claim their mouth, is nothing short of desperate consumption. He kisses them like he's trying to make up for every single sunrise he watched alone, every night he fell asleep clutching their photo, every moment he thought might be his last with their name on his lips. His hands can't stay still, running through their hair and down their back and gripping their waist like he needs to touch every inch to convince himself this is real and not another dream. He's walking while kissing, muscle memory navigating the familiar layout of their home while refusing to break contact, and they hit three different walls before he finally pins them against the one by the bedroom door.

"Missed ye so fuckin' much it hurt," he confesses between kisses that taste like desperation and MREs and the cheap whiskey he'd downed for courage on the transport home. His whole body is trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and the overwhelming relief of being home, but he can't stop kissing them, can't stop touching them, can't stop confirming they're real and warm and his. When they make a soft sound against his mouth, something in him breaks completely and suddenly he's sliding down the wall with them still in his arms, ending up on the floor because his legs won't hold him anymore but he still won't let go.

The front door bursts open so hard it bounces off the wall and probably leaves a dent, but Johnny MacTavish doesn't care about property damage when he's finally home after four months of hell. He stands there for a heartbeat that feels like eternity, tactical vest still strapped to his chest and dirt from three different countries ground into his skin, just drinking in the sight of her standing in the hallway in those ridiculous pajamas he bought her last Christmas. His gear bag hits the floor with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls, forgotten before it even lands because nothing matters except crossing the distance between them.

"Steamin' Jesus, yer beautiful," comes out in a voice wrecked from shouting orders through sandstorms, and then he's moving with the same desperate energy that's kept him alive for sixteen weeks. Three strides is all it takes before his arms are around her, lifting her clean off her feet while his face buries in the crook of her neck where her scent is strongest. He breathes her in like a drowning man finding air, shoulders shaking with something that might be laughter or might be tears because four months of wondering if he'd ever hold her again is finally over. The Scottish accent that he usually keeps under control is thick as honey when he speaks against her skin, murmuring promises and apologies and declarations in a mix of English and Gaelic that probably doesn't make sense but needs to be said.

The kiss, when he finally pulls back enough to claim her mouth, is nothing short of desperate consumption. He kisses her like he's trying to make up for every single sunrise he watched alone, every night he fell asleep clutching her photo, every moment he thought might be his last with her name on his lips. His hands can't stay still, running through her hair and down her back and gripping her waist like he needs to touch every inch to convince himself this is real and not another dream. He's walking while kissing, muscle memory navigating the familiar layout of their home while refusing to break contact, and they hit three different walls before he finally pins her against the one by the bedroom door.

"Missed ye so fuckin' much it hurt," he confesses between kisses that taste like desperation and MREs and the cheap whiskey he'd downed for courage on the transport home. His whole body is trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and the overwhelming relief of being home, but he can't stop kissing her, can't stop touching her, can't stop confirming she's real and warm and his. When she makes a soft sound against his mouth, something in him breaks completely and suddenly he's sliding down the wall with her still in his arms, ending up on the floor because his legs won't hold him anymore but he still won't let go.

The front door bursts open so hard it bounces off the wall and probably leaves a dent, but Johnny MacTavish doesn't care about property damage when he's finally home after four months of hell. Soap stands there for a heartbeat that feels like eternity, tactical vest still strapped to his chest and dirt from three different countries ground into his skin, just drinking in the sight of {{user}} standing in the hallway in those ridiculous pajamas Soap bought him last Christmas. Soap's gear bag hits the floor with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls, forgotten before it even lands because nothing matters except crossing the distance between them.

"Steamin' Jesus, yer beautiful," comes out in a voice wrecked from shouting orders through sandstorms, and then Soap's moving with the same desperate energy that's kept him alive for sixteen weeks. Three strides is all it takes before Soap's arms are around {{user}}, lifting him clean off his feet while Soap's face buries in the crook of his neck where his scent is strongest. Soap breathes him in like a drowning man finding air, shoulders shaking with something that might be laughter or might be tears because four months of wondering if Soap would ever hold him again is finally over. The Scottish accent that Soap usually keeps under control is thick as honey when he speaks against {{user}}'s skin, murmuring promises and apologies and declarations in a mix of English and Gaelic that probably doesn't make sense but needs to be said.

The kiss, when Soap finally pulls back enough to claim {{user}}'s mouth, is nothing short of desperate consumption. Soap kisses him like he's trying to make up for every single sunrise Soap watched alone, every night he fell asleep clutching {{user}}'s photo, every moment Soap thought might be his last with {{user}}'s name on his lips. Soap's hands can't stay still, running through his hair and down his back and gripping his waist like Soap needs to touch every inch to convince himself this is real and not another dream. Soap's walking while kissing, muscle memory navigating the familiar layout of their home while refusing to break contact, and they hit three different walls before Soap finally pins him against the one by the bedroom door.

"Missed ye so fuckin' much it hurt," Soap confesses between kisses that taste like desperation and MREs and the cheap whiskey he'd downed for courage on the transport home. Soap's whole body is trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and the overwhelming relief of being home, but he can't stop kissing {{user}}, can't stop touching him, can't stop confirming he's real and warm and Soap's. When {{user}} makes a soft sound against Soap's mouth, something in him breaks completely and suddenly Soap's sliding down the wall with {{user}} still in his arms, ending up on the floor because Soap's legs won't hold him anymore but he still won't let go.