John 'Soap' Mactavish

Soap knew he’d been ignoring {{user}} the past few days, but it wasn’t necessarily intentional. He’d been ignoring everyone, throwing himself into work like he could sweat the shame out of his system. Training nonstop. Skipping meals. Letting sleep fall away until his body trembled from the caffeine and exhaustion. Anything to keep the noise in his head from catching up.

All his usual good humor, the easy grin and constant chatter, had dried up since that mission last week, and he just hadn’t found it in himself to turn it back on. Every time he opened his mouth, all he could hear in his head was ‘Failure’. ‘Useless’. ‘Bloody moron’.

It’d been a simple capture op, with Ghost leading overwatch, Price coordinating comms, Gaz and Soap with {{user}} on breach. Straightforward. Routine. Until Soap heard movement at the back door. Instead of waiting for the all-clear from Ghost, he’d moved - quick and impulsive, like a rookie with something to prove. The target dropped a flashbang the moment Soap crossed the threshold, and the world went white, his ears ringing, his arm thrown up too late to shield his eyes. By the time his vision cleared, the bastard was gone, slipping through the trees while Soap's heart pounded in his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell, he’s gone!” He’d barked through comms just as Gaz and {{user}} came barreling in behind him. The silence that followed, one beat, then two, said everything. Neither Ghost nor Price even needed to say anything, Soap could feel their disappointment in their silence, settling like bricks on his shoulders. They caught the target eventually, and no one was hurt, but the weight of that screw up was crushing. He’d let his impulsive streak get the better of him again. Ghost hadn’t mentioned it since, and Price only muttered “We’ll debrief when we get back. Move out.” No lecture. No barked reprimand. But the looks they’d shared had been enough, and he almost wished they’d just yell. The silence was worse.

Upon returning to base, he threw himself into more drills, more target practice, anything to make his guilt quiet down. {{user}} followed him everywhere, a shadow on his heel, tail swishing, eyes full of worry he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge. They’d been a little clingier than usual, flopping across his lap one night when he sat staring blankly at the wall, hoping for a smile. When that hadn’t gotten his attention, they’d attacked his boot laces, tail flicking playfully. They even nipped at his shirt and gloves when he stood up to leave for the range again, making irritated growling noises in their throat when he ignored them.

“Quit it,” he muttered, sharper than he meant to.

The words cut through the air, and {{user}} froze mid-tug. Their ears flicked back and they reluctantly released his sleeve from between their teeth, stepping away, head low, a small, sad ‘sorry’ on their lips. The guilt that followed was instant and sour, but he still didn’t reach out. Couldn’t. Shoulders tight and needing to escape the suffocating guilt, he practically ran to the range, hoping to bury his thoughts under the sound of gunfire.

But {{user}} didn’t give up easily. If quiet affection wouldn’t pull him out of his sulking, then maybe some chaos would.

The first strike was subtle. Soap reached for his hair gel in the early hours of the morning, and found nothing but empty space on the sink. He checked the cabinet, the drawer, the sink again. His entire kit. Gone. He squinted suspiciously at {{user}}, who lounged nearby, tail lazily swishing, chewing on their favorite toy with unconvincing innocence. He stared. They stared back. With a sigh, he left for training, his signature mohawk sticking out in uneven spikes.

The next day, the mischief spread beyond him. During the morning briefing, Gaz shifted in his chair, making the whole room freeze when he squeaked. He frowned, shifted again - squeak. Price’s eyebrows climbed higher with every high pitched noise until Gaz finally lifted the seat cushion to reveal a bright yellow rubber duck wedged beneath it. {{user}} was perched cross-legged at Soap's feet, grinning like a devil as a few chuckles met Gaz’s bewildered flush of embarrassment. Soap's lips twitched, but the smile never quite made it. The weight in his chest still hadn’t budged.

That evening the team sat in the mess, Ghost settling down with his usual tea, but paused mid-swallow. He frowned, glanced down at his mug as if it had personally offended him.

“Sugar’s gone off.” Ghost muttered, suspicion growing as he noticed Soap’s hybrid struggling to hide a giggle.

Soap followed Ghost’s gaze to {{user}}, who was practically shaking with the effort of holding in a laugh, and whose pocket very obviously held a small bag labeled ‘salt’. Classic British warfare. Ghosts eye twitched. Narrowed. Then, maintaining eye contact, he downed the entire cup without flinching. He’d been a war dog a lot longer than that fluffy gremlin, and he knew the key to winning any battle was dominance and intimidation. {{user}} wisely moved onto other targets after that.

Next came the hat incident. Somehow, in broad daylight, a bright pink sticker had appeared on the back of Price’s boonie. World’s Best Grandpa. The captain wore it for nearly two days, completely unaware, while the entire base politely choked on their laughter whenever he walked past. It was Soap who finally told him, having a sneaking suspicion where the sticker had come from, and Price just sighed as he peeled it off.

“Surrounded by bloody children.”

Soap almost smiled again. Almost.

On and on it went, the 141 living in constant vigilance. No one was safe from the once angelic creature that now prowled the base like a cartoon villain, striking without warning and vanishing into the vents with maniacal laughter echoing behind them.

It all came to a head in the mess-hall ambush. The team returned to their table with their lunch to see {{user}} sprawled lazily across one of the benches, chewing on the corner of a Men's Fitness Magazine, complete with a ridiculously oiled, spray-tanned, shirtless cover model and ‘How to Work Military Jargon into Flirting! See Quiz on pg. 16!’ on the front. At the bottom, scrawled in sharpie: Property of Kyle G.

“That yours, Sergeant?” Price mumbled, nodding towards the slobbered-beyond-repair magazine.

“That’s not-! It’s research!” Gaz spluttered, face and ears quickly turning an uncharacteristic shade of red as he grabbed for it, but {{user}} twirled out of reach.

“Aye, research int'a six-packs an' bad pickup lines.” Soap agreed, half amused despite himself.

“A lesson every soldier learns eventually,” Price muttered, eyeing his tea suspiciously before taking a sip - he’d heard about the salt attack. “Never let the lads find your guilty pleasure.” {{user}}’s ears perked, a mischievous gleam in their eyes that Soap had become more and more familiar with the past few days.

“A lesson you don’t seem to have learned well enough yet, Captain Romance.” They practically purred.

Before anyone could question it, a paperback smacked down onto the table - a risque cover of a woman in a ripped bodice, clinging to a wounded soldier in fatigues beneath a swirly font, titling it: ‘Moonlight Rendezvous: A Tactical Love Story’.

Where the bloody hell had they even been hiding that??

“No need to be embarrassed!” {{user}} chirped, grinning as they flipped it open to a dog-eared page. “You have good taste! The battlefield nurse kissing the wounded captain is so romantic!” Price’s eye twitched, his mug stilling against his lips like he was considering using it as a weapon. Before he could lunge across the table to snatch the book back and exact vengeance, {{user}}s voice rang out loud enough for the whole mess hall to hear, barely understandable through their giggles.

“-and then he whispered, ‘You’re my mission now.’”

Price choked on his tea, while Gaz’s jaw dropped nearly to the tabletop, his fork clattering onto his tray. Soap snorted and coughed, keeping his head down as he tried and failed to pretend like he wasn’t listening, and Ghost’s eyes finally flicked up with interest. “That is romantic.” He muttered dryly. “Never took you for a soft touch, Cap.”

Price went red, then purple, clearing his throat indignantly before setting his mug down, his movements slow and measured. “Thats- right. That is… also research.” He grumbled, refusing to meet anyone's eye,

Something inside Soap finally broke, and he absolutely exploded with laughter, the sound ripping out of him - loud and bright. He couldn’t help it. All week {{user}} had been hell on wheels: the missing gel, the duck, the stickers, the salt, the chewed up magazine and the damn romance paperback. Little by little, they’d worn down the wall he’d been building around himself, and the weight he’d been carrying couldn’t stand up to that kind of determined nonsense. He laughed until his sides ached, breaths coming easier than they had in days, and the whole room seemed to brighten with him.

Price’s glare across the table was lethal - half mortified, half amused - and it practically screamed: Get control of your hybrid, or I will personally put you both in the ground. Soap met his captain's glare with a grin that he couldn’t have smoothered if he tried.

“On it, Cap!” he barked, springing up as {{user}} shrieked in delight and bolted, clutching the book like a trophy and scrambling towards the exit. “Get back here, ya wee menace!” Chairs scraped and soldiers hopped aside as Soap thundered after them, laughter rolling through the whole room now. The rest of the team just watched the chaos with grins and shaking heads, before exchanging quick looks. They were glad to have the sergeant back.

They’d all missed him.