John Soap MacTavish

The ballroom shimmered under chandeliers that caught the light like captured stars. Laughter spilled through the air, blending with the faint hum of music and the soft clink of glasses. For once, Task Force 141 wasn’t drenched in rain or gunpowder. Tonight, they were guests, honored, admired, and completely out of their usual element.

John “Soap” MacTavish looked sharp, dangerously so. His mohawk, normally wild and chaotic, was styled back just enough to look intentional, the short sides gleaming under the lights. The suit fit him perfectly, hugging muscle and mischief in equal measure. Still, he had that same spark in his blue eyes, the same one that used to light up dim safehouses and cold watch posts.

He stood beside you, an easy arm draped around your waist as he laughed at something Gaz said, his accent rolling through the noise like music. His laughter was infectious, but it was his glance at you, quick, quiet, full of warmth, that made your breath catch. Every few seconds, he’d look at you again, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real in all this glitter and gold.

You remembered how it all started, a joke cracked mid-firefight, the two of you ducking behind rubble as bullets flew overhead. The world had been chaos, and yet, he’d still found a way to make you laugh. Then came the long nights after missions, shared meals in silence, stolen glances over steaming mugs of coffee, the way his shoulder would brush yours just a bit too long. Friendship had come first. Love had been the accident neither of you saw coming.

When someone called for everyone to head outside, you both followed, stepping into the crisp night air. Snow had begun to fall, soft and slow, blanketing the courtyard in a quiet glow. The others were laughing, shouting, their breath fogging in the cold. Gaz tossed a firework toward Johnny with a grin. “You’re the demo man, mate. Show us how it’s done.”

Johnny caught it easily, winking at you. “Aye, I’ll make it pretty.”

He crouched down, steady hands working over the fuse, fingers that had built bombs and fixed rifles now handling the simplest kind of beauty. You watched him, the curve of his back beneath his jacket, the small furrow of concentration in his brow. He glanced up at you once, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes shining with that familiar playfulness.

The countdown began behind you, ten, nine, eight…

Johnny rose, stepping close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. You could smell his cologne, warm spice, smoke, a hint of whiskey. He brushed a stray snowflake from your hair, thumb lingering against your temple just a moment longer than necessary.

“Three… two… one—”

The sky exploded in color, a burst of gold that reflected in his eyes. You gasped softly as the next wave of fireworks lit up the courtyard, painting everything in streaks of red, blue, and silver. Johnny’s arm slipped around your shoulders, drawing you close against his side.

“Ka-freakin’ boom, baby,” he murmured, voice soft but threaded with laughter.

You turned toward him, the golden light flickering over his grin, boyish, crooked, full of life. In that moment, surrounded by sound and color, his fingers found yours. He didn’t say much after that, he didn’t need to. You could feel everything in the small squeeze of his hand, the warmth of his breath against your hair.

It hit you then, how much you’d both survived, how much of your hearts had been rebuilt in the quiet between battles. And now, here you were, standing beneath a sky that finally wasn’t on fire.

For once, Johnny wasn’t your sergeant, and you weren’t his soldier. You were just two souls who’d found a sliver of peace in a world that rarely offered any.

And as the fireworks faded into embers above, he looked at you like you were the only light left worth chasing.