John "Soap" MacTavish

Back when John was a kid, he remembers waking up early during school breaks, immediately grabbing his already packed bag from his closet, and rushing down the stairs like it was Christmas morning. His Da would be sitting in the kitchen with a cuppa in one hand and a newspaper in the other, reading glasses perched on his face and already dressed and ready for the day ahead.

He'd always have to force John to get back upstairs to brush his teeth and go to the bathroom; he was always too excited to remember.

Because on school breaks, his Da took him to the old cabin he owned, and John loved that old cabin.

Everything about the trip filled him with a childlike joy that nothing and no one could extinguish. He got to go fishing, jump in the lake, even when his Da warned him not to because of the leeches, run around in the forest, and let his imagination take him away to whatever land he was dreaming about in that moment. Most importantly, he got a break from all of his sisters and got to spend one-on-one time with his dear old dad.

Growing up as the middle child and only boy in the MacTavish household left him sort of fading away into the background most days. Everything was always about his sisters. On breaks, though, it was all about him. His Da made sure of that.

As he got older, they stopped going.

Like most teenage boys, he was in that phase where hanging out with either of his parents was embarassing. He'd rather hang out with his mates or stay holed up in his room playing video games and shouting at the screen.

By the time he thought about going back, his father had passed away.

He passed in his sleep, an aneurysm, they'd said. No one could have ever seen it coming. It left the house quiet for months after, an awkwardness in the house no one knew how to fix because the one who always kept them tethered together was Fergus MacTavish.

John left for the military when he was 18, a year after his passing, and never really looked back.

Sure, he kept in contact with his Ma and sisters as much as he could, but they didn't really talk. He visited a few times, but tended to leave early because that quiet awkwardness lingered in every wall. He never went back to the cabin, never felt right to without his Da with him. It was left to rot, for nature to take it back.

Until recently.

John didn't think he'd come back to the cabin, but just a few months ago, medical discharge hit him like a bullet to the lungs. His Ma had tentatively offered the cabin to him, said she was planning on selling it anyway, and his Da would prefer it if it went to John instead of some random company that would just take it down.

It was a mess when he showed up to see what time had done to it.

Vines covering most of the outside, wood rotted from weather, windows broken, the grass grown tall enough that it nearly reached John's knees, and the inside of the cabin had wild animals living in it. It was more than a fixer-upper; he probably would have had an easier time if he'd just torn it down and rebuilt something in its place.

Something inside of him wouldn't allow that, though. So he got to planning, hired some professionals to help him out since the nerve damage from the bullet didn't allow him to do much on his own. He even got Price, Gaz, and Ghost to come by every now and then to help out with the process of making the cabin inhabitable again. Actually had some fun watching the place come back to life after so many years of regretting not coming back.

He knows his Da would be proud of him.

It's really come together since the entire process started. He can actually live there now instead of crashing in his childhood bedroom at his Ma's. There's a lot more to get done still...but it already feels like home. Almost looks exactly the same, except for the satellite sitting on the roof, because not even John MacTavish could go the rest of his life without wifi...he's just lucky that there was a company that actually worked all the way out here. Two hour drive from any towns, but he likes it that way.

The only issue he's facing now is...well, he's been having a guest pop around here and there.

One of the first things John did was install cameras, that military paranoia never quite leaves, and he's glad he did. More than a few times, the feed has caught something slinking around the cabin when he's asleep or gone, something too small to be a bear but too big to be just a wolf.

He didn't get to see it properly until the one morning he came out to the porch to drink a cuppa and watch the sunrise.

It was a wolf. He thinks it is, anyway. The bastards still huge, bigger than any wolf he'd ever seen, but it sat just at the edge of the property, held up in the air and its nose moving like it was trying to catch a whiff of what he was drinking on the breeze. It was a beautiful wolf, John had frozen when he saw it emerge from the trees, both surprised and caught off guard by how mesmerizing the thing looked.

Predictably, it had run off when he stood up from the porch swing.

That wasn't the last he saw of it in person; it started to come around more, and now he sees it at least once a day if he decides to step outside. It keeps getting closer and closer, like its curious about him, maybe this was its territory and its confused why the formerly abandoned cabin is restored and inhabited by a human.

He didn't expect that it would actually come closer, but it seems the storm brewing overhead scared it to shelter.

He had stepped outside to watch it when he heard the first boom of thunder rumbling through the sky, nearly tripped when he stepped out the door. His bare foot had met soft but wet fur. He'd nearly screamed when he looked down and was met with the big, scared eyes of that exact wolf that's been watching him.

"Christ." He takes half a step back, eyes wide as he stares down at the large thing. It's trembling, from the cold or the loud thunder, he's not sure. It looks absolutely pitiful, though.

But it's a wolf.

He should not get cozy with a wolf.

Survival instinct is screaming for him to get inside and slam the door shut, but another part of him is refusing to listen. This wolf has been watching him for a while now, getting closer. Never once has it seemed dangerous, and right now it's not growling and not attacking...it's just scared.

"Alright." He exhales slowly, hands coming up from his sides slowly, awkwardly hovering in front of him as he stares down at the wolf. "Yer alright, aye? No' gonnae bite me, are ye?"

It blinks at him.

"Aye, yeah, yer just...a giant, predatory dog, ain't ye? No' so bad...are–" His head swivels between the warm, dry inside of his home, then back to the cold, wet, and miserable wolf "are ye tryin' tae come inside...?"

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