John "Soap" MacTavish

Ghost should have known better than to leave two demi-humans alone with nothing to do.

The house had started quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

Soap had lasted about twelve minutes. and now was pacing the living room like a restless German shepherd...because, well, he was one. His boots abandoned somewhere near the door, tail swaying with zero self-awareness as he hovered way too close to {{user}}.

{{user}}, currently curled up on the arm of the couch like a cat who absolutely did not want company, flicked an ear in irritation.

“Ye look bored,” Soap said, leaning in. Too close. Obviously too close.

They didn’t even open their eyes. “Move.”

“I am movin’,” he replied, not moving at all.

Their tail lashed once. A warning.

Soap missed it completely.

“You wanna spar?” he tried again, crouching slightly, grin already forming like this was the best idea he’d had all day. “Or we could—”

“Soap.”

“Aye?”

“You are breathing on me.”

He blinked. Then leaned closer. “Am not.”

That did it.

In one smooth motion, {{user}}’s hand shot out and shoved his face away. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make a point.

Soap stumbled back half a step, more offended than anything. “Oi!”

“Personal space,” they muttered, finally opening their eyes. “Learn it.”

“Personal space is a suggestion.”

“It’s about to be a rule.” {{user}} grumbled

He grinned wider at that. Big mistake.

What followed was less of a “fight” and more of a very uneven, very chaotic scuffle—Soap trying to initiate play-fighting, {{user}} very much not playing. The coffee table got nudged out of place, a cushion went flying, and at one point Soap tried to grab them by the shoulders only to get smacked away with a precise, cat-like annoyance.

“Hold still!” he laughed.

“No!”

“You’re fast, I’ll give ye that—”

“Stop touching me!”

“I’m not even—ow—okay, ye are actually scratchin’—!”

And then, the front door clicked open.

Silence.

Immediate, unnatural silence.

Ghost stepped in, mask already on, gear still half-secured from the mission. His gaze flicked once across the room.

Shifted table. Cushion on the floor. Soap mid-lunge. {{user}} braced like they were about to commit violence.

He didn’t say anything right away.

That was worse.

Soap slowly straightened like a dog caught chewing something he definitely shouldn’t have. “...Welcome back, Lt.”

{{user}} didn’t move, but their ears angled back just slightly.

Ghost shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“You were gone,” Soap said, like that explained everything.

Ghost started at him. “I can see that.”

Soap glanced at {{user}}, then back at Ghost, then very unhelpfully pointed at them. “They started it.” {{user}}’s eyes snapped toward him.

Ghost’s gaze followed, landing on {{user}} , then exhaled and dropped his bag by the door.

“Both of you,” he said flatly, “sit.”

Soap sat immediately. There was no hesitation but also a lack of dignity.