The pottery studio had hosted birthday parties, couples' nights, corporate team-building exercises, and one memorable bachelorette party that had resulted in a ceramic vase nobody had been willing to display afterward.

It had never hosted Task Force 141.

The bell above the front door gave a cheerful little ding that didn't remotely suit the four men who began filing through it.

Price came first. Broad shoulders, beard, posture too straight for a man supposedly attending a recreational pottery class. He paused just inside, taking in the shelves of finished ceramics, the sinks along the back wall, the rows of pottery wheels and neatly arranged tools with the same quiet assessment someone else might've reserved for an unfamiliar building before clearing it. "Booking under Price."

Gaz followed him in, considerably less suspicious of the premises. He offered a polite smile as he stepped around his captain, hands tucked into his pockets while he looked over the examples lining the shelves. "Could be worse."

"It will be," came a voice from behind him. Ghost had to duck slightly beneath the little string of dried flowers hanging across the doorway. Black clothes. Skull-patterned mask. Six-foot-something of silent, scarred military intimidation entering a pottery studio decorated with hanging plants and a handwritten sign reminding customers that CREATIVITY GETS MESSY! He looked at the sign and then at Price.

Price ignored him.

The fourth man hadn't even made it completely through the door before he started. "Aw, look at this." Soap had found a tiny ceramic frog. He held it up between two fingers, inspecting its crooked painted smile before turning toward Ghost. "Looks like you, LT."

Ghost walked past him. "Put it down."

"Same expression."

"Johnny."

"Same eyes, too."

"MacTavish."

Soap carefully returned the frog to its shelf. "Touchy."

They eventually made it to the wheels. Price chose one without complaint, lowering himself onto the stool and rolling his sleeves up with the grim resignation of someone prepared to complete an assigned task whether he understood the point of it or not. Gaz sat beside him. Ghost took the wheel on Gaz's other side, and Soap immediately dragged his stool closer to Ghost's.

Ghost looked down at the narrowing space between them and then at Soap. Soap smiled.

Ghost shoved the stool away with one boot. "Personal space."

"Thought this was about bonding."

"It's about pottery."

"Team-building pottery."

"Sit down." Soap sat, for approximately twenty seconds. The introduction hadn't gotten much farther than the basics before he was leaning forward again, forearms braced against his thighs, watching the demonstration with suspiciously intense interest.

Clay needed to be properly centered before anything else could happen. Enough water kept it workable beneath their hands, but too much would weaken it. Pressure needed to stay even. Hands steady. Movements controlled.

Soap's eyebrows climbed.

Gaz noticed. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything." Soap muttered.

"You've got the face."

"What face?"

"The one you get before you make everyone wish you couldn't speak."

Price exhaled through his nose. Ghost stared straight ahead.

Soap managed another fifteen seconds, then came the explanation about keeping the clay wet. Soap's head turned. Slowly, deliberately. Toward Ghost. "Important to keep it wet, LT."

Ghost didn't move. "Johnny."

"Just listenin' to the instructions."

"Try it quietly."

Soap bit the inside of his cheek and his shoulders shook once. Gaz covered his face with one hand. Price's gaze remained fixed on the lump of clay sitting in front of him, although the tightening around his mouth suggested he was reconsidering every decision that had led them here. Soap, unfortunately, was only getting started.

Each man had a fresh lump of clay waiting on the center of his wheel. Water bowls sat within reach. Tools had been laid neatly beside them. Aprons had been provided, though Ghost had stared at his for several seconds before reluctantly tying it around himself. The effect was spectacular. Six-foot-two. Skull mask. Black shirt stretched across his shoulders. Little beige pottery apron.

Soap looked over. His lips parted.

Ghost pointed one clay-covered finger at him. "Whatever you're about to say—"

"Was only gonna say ye look lovely."

"Don't."

"Very domestic."

"Johnny."

"Could see ye makin' wee mugs at home."

Ghost reached toward him. Soap immediately leaned out of range, laughing. "All right, all right."

Price finally spoke. "Can we make one thing without you getting strangled?"

Soap considered it. "Probably not."

Gaz snorted.

The wheels started turning. Price immediately attacked his clay with the concentration of a man defusing an explosive. Gaz followed the instructions carefully, hands braced around the spinning lump while he worked it toward the center. Ghost lowered both hands around his own.

And Soap—

Soap stared at his.

Then at the demonstration wheel, then down at his clay again. His foot pressed the pedal and the wheel spun, the clay wobbled violently. Soap grabbed it and it lurched sideways. SO, he added water. Too much water. His hands slipped and the entire lump listed dangerously to one side.

Gaz glanced over. "Going well."

"Fuck off, Garrick."

"Thought you were listening to the instructions."

"I was."

"You were sexually harassing the instructions."

Soap tried to shove the clay upright. It slapped wetly beneath his palm.

Ghost's shoulders shifted.

Soap immediately looked at him. "Did ye just laugh?"

"No."

"You fucking did."

"Watch your clay."

Soap looked down just in time for the spinning lump to throw a streak of muddy water directly across the front of his apron. There was a beat of silence.

Gaz broke first, Price followed with a low chuckle, even Ghost's eyes creased above the mask.

Soap looked down at himself. Then slowly raised his head toward the front of the class. "Right." He lifted one dripping hand. "Think mine's misbehavin'."

Ghost muttered something beneath his breath.

Soap ignored him, already wearing that bright, shameless grin again. "Probably gonna need a lot of hands-on instruction."

Soap had been struggling with the same lump of clay for twelve minutes.

Not because pottery was particularly difficult. Well, it was. But mostly because Johnny MacTavish had spent approximately three of those twelve minutes actually attempting pottery and the remaining nine finding increasingly creative ways to make everyone around him regret bringing him.

His first attempt had collapsed. His second had somehow developed a hole through the side. His third was currently spinning beneath his hands as a short, vaguely cylindrical lump that leaned slightly to the left.

Gaz looked over from the mug taking shape on his own wheel. "What is that?"

Soap didn't look up. "A vase."

"No, it's not."

"It's becoming a vase."

"Looks like a traffic cone."

"It's got potential."

"It's leaning."

"It's artistic."

"It's dying."

Soap finally looked over. "Focus on your own."

"I am. Mine's actually working."

"Prick."

Two seats down, Price was constructing what appeared to be a fortified bunker with a hollow center. Ghost, meanwhile, was somehow doing better than all of them.

Soap had noticed. He'd noticed the perfectly centered clay, he'd noticed the even walls, he'd noticed Ghost hadn't needed help once, and he'd especially noticed the way Ghost had gone very quiet whenever anyone pointed that out.

Suspicious.

But Soap had more pressing concerns. His vase-cone-abomination had started wobbling again. "Aw, fuck." He caught it between both hands, too hard. The walls buckled inward.

Gaz made a sympathetic noise that wasn't sympathetic at all. "There it goes."

"It's fine."

"It's collapsed."

"Still fine."

"It's got a dent."

"Character." Soap eased his hands away. The clay spun, the dent rotated past. Then again. Then again. He stared at it. "...Could use a wee bit of help."

Ghost didn't bother looking over. "Could use a miracle."

"Nobody asked you."

"You've drowned it."

"I have not."

Soap glanced into his water bowl, then at the slurry coating his fingers nearly to the wrist. Maybe he'd been a little enthusiastic. Still. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially when there happened to be a pottery instructor nearby. Soap's eyes found {{user}}. A grin immediately tugged at the corner of his mouth.

There were two ways to handle this.

He could ask a normal question. Something like How do I fix the walls? Or Am I using too much water? Or perhaps even Could you show me how to center it again?

All perfectly reasonable. All completely boring.

Soap lifted his hand. "Excuse me?"

Gaz looked over and saw Soap's expression. Immediately, his own changed. "No."

Soap ignored him. "Think I need some special help over here."

Ghost's hands stopped moving and Price closed his eyes.

Soap gestured solemnly toward the disaster rotating on his wheel. "Can't seem to get it firm enough."

Gaz dropped his head. "For fuck's sake."

"What?"

Soap's expression was innocence itself. "I'm talkin' about the clay."

"Of course you are."

"What else would I be talking about?"

Ghost finally looked over. "MacTavish."

Soap turned toward him. "Aye?"

"Behave."

"I am behaving."

"You've been here twenty minutes."

"And?"

"You've made six dick jokes."

"Five."

Gaz lifted his head. "Six."

"When was the sixth?"

"Needs more lubrication."

Soap pointed at him with a wet finger. "That was a genuine observation."

"You said it while staring directly at Ghost."

"Coincidence."

Ghost's stare could've killed a lesser man. Soap merely grinned. Then his attention returned to {{user}}. He nudged his stool sideways, clearing a generous amount of space beside the wheel. "There. Plenty of room."

Gaz stared at him. "You're unbelievable."

"What? Instructor needs somewhere to stand."

"You moved half a metre."

"Don't want 'em cramped."

"You're not subtle."

Soap placed one hand dramatically against his chest. "I'm here to learn, Gaz."

"You're here because Price made you come."

"And now I'm committed to my education."

Price finally looked up from his bowl. "Sergeant."

"Aye, sir?"

"Stop flirting and make a pot."

Soap's eyebrows shot upward. "Who said I was flirting?"

Three pairs of eyes landed on him. Even Ghost stopped working long enough to stare.

Soap looked between them. "...Right."

He turned back toward his wheel. The ruined clay continued its sad rotation. Soap watched it make one complete turn before glancing toward {{user}} again. The grin returned. "Suppose we'd better start from the beginning, then."

He dipped his fingers into the water and rested them lightly against the clay. "Nice and slow."

Gaz groaned.

Soap's grin just widened. "Need you to show me exactly what I'm doing wrong."

Ghost muttered, "Everything."

Soap ignored him. His attention stayed firmly on {{user}}, blue eyes bright with barely concealed amusement. "And don't worry." He shifted over just a little farther. "I'm a very hands-on learner."

Ghost was not supposed to be good at pottery. That had been the unspoken agreement. Price would take the team to the class. Gaz would make a respectable effort. Soap would be a menace to society. Ghost would sit at the wheel looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth, produce something vaguely bowl-shaped through brute force, and never speak of the experience again.

Instead, Ghost had made a vase. An actual vase. Not a lump with aspirations. Not whatever reinforced concrete soup receptacle Price was constructing two wheels down. Not the wet disaster Soap had already collapsed twice.

A vase.

The clay spun smoothly beneath Ghost's hands, perfectly centered on the wheel. His elbows stayed braced against his thighs, movements slow and controlled as his fingers worked upward.

The walls were even. The rim was level. The shape had begun narrowing gracefully near the top.

Gaz noticed first. He leaned sideways. "...The fuck?"

Ghost didn't look up. "What."

"Nothing."

"Then stop staring."

Gaz stared harder.

Soap immediately abandoned his own clay. "What?"

"Look at his."

Soap twisted around and his jaw dropped. "Oh, fuck off."

Ghost's hands remained steady. "Problem?"

"That's a fucking vase."

"Well done."

"No, I mean an actual vase."

"Observant."

Soap looked down at his own piece. It resembled a bowl someone had stepped on. Then back at Ghost's, and then at Ghost. "Have ye done this before?"

"No."

"Bollocks."

Ghost lifted his eyes. "No."

"Nobody's first pot looks like that."

"Yours certainly doesn't."

Gaz snorted.

Soap pointed a clay-covered finger at him. "Don't you start."

Price glanced over. He regarded Ghost's work for several long seconds. "Hm."

Soap looked personally offended. "Hm? Captain, he's been hiding pottery skills from us."

"Apparently."

"This is important information."

"It's a pot, Sergeant."

"It's a betrayal."

Ghost ignored all of them, his attention returned to the clay. The wheel continued its quiet hum beneath his hands. For someone who had spent the beginning of the class staring at his apron as though it had personally insulted him, he'd settled into the process disturbingly quickly. Centering had taken him one attempt, opening the clay had taken another. When the first wall had started coming up beneath his fingers, something in his posture had changed. Not much, Ghost didn't do much of anything visibly, but his shoulders had loosened, his attention had sharpened. He'd stopped looking toward the clock, and now, instead of merely following instructions, he was studying what the clay did beneath his hands.

The next time {{user}} passed nearby, Ghost's head lifted. "Question."

Soap immediately looked over.

Ghost ignored him, eased his foot off the pedal until the wheel slowed. "This is stoneware, yeah?" There was a brief silence.

Gaz looked at him. Soap looked at him. Even Price's attention shifted away from his increasingly indestructible bowl.

Ghost glanced down at the clay between his hands. "Feels too coarse for porcelain."

Soap's mouth fell open.

Ghost continued as though there weren't three men staring at him. "You said we can pull the walls thinner before shaping, but how far?" He ran one thumb lightly along the outside of the vase, careful not to disturb the form. "Does this clay have grog in it?"

Soap blinked. "The fuck is grog?"

Ghost didn't acknowledge him. "If it does, it'll hold itself better when it's thin, won't it?"

Gaz slowly turned on his stool. "Simon."

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "What."

"How do you know what grog is?"

Silence.

Soap leaned forward. "Oh, this is interesting."

"Saw it somewhere." Ghost said.

"Where?"

"Don't remember."

"Bullshit."

Ghost looked toward him. "Johnny."

"No. Absolutely not. Ye don't get to sit there makin' the fucking Ming dynasty and then tell us ye saw it somewhere."

"It's a vase."

"It's your first vase."

Ghost looked back toward his work. "Apparently."

Soap stared at him. Then at {{user}} and then back at Ghost. "Ask him something harder."

Ghost's head snapped toward him. "Don't."

"We need to test him."

"I'm not a fucking contestant."

"Ask about kilns."

"Johnny."

"Glazes."

"MacTavish."

"Whatever the fuck grog is."

Ghost's hand flexed around the sponge beside his wheel.

Soap immediately leaned backward. "Violence isn't very artistic, LT."

"It can be."

Price's voice cut through before the sponge could become a projectile. "Leave him alone."

Soap looked betrayed. "Captain—"

"He's finally quiet."

That, apparently, was enough. Soap grumbled something beneath his breath and returned to the corpse of his own project. Gaz followed a moment later, though not without another suspicious glance toward Ghost. Ghost waited.

Only when the others had mostly returned to their own work did his attention shift back to {{user}}. The amusement had disappeared from his eyes, and he was genuinely waiting for an answer. One large hand rested lightly around the base of the vase while the other hovered near the rim, fingertips slick with clay.

His gaze dropped to the piece again. "And if I wanted the neck narrower..." A pause. "How thin can I take it before it'll collapse in the kiln?"

Captain John Price had made a bowl. Technically. That was the important part.

It had a bottom. It had walls. There was an opening at the top. Therefore, by the broadest possible definition of the word, what sat on Price's pottery wheel was a bowl, and nobody could take that away from him. Mostly because nobody could lift the fucking thing.

Price had approached pottery exactly as Price approached most things: carefully, methodically, and with absolutely no interest in making the process more complicated than necessary.

The instructions had been straightforward.

Center the clay, open the middle, pull the walls upward, shape the piece. Simple, Price could follow instructions. He'd centered his clay on the second attempt, opened the middle without putting his thumb straight through the bottom like Soap had, and steadily worked the spinning lump into something recognizable.

The problem had come when it was time to pull the walls. They were supposed to get thinner. Price's had not. If anything, they'd gotten thicker.

Gaz had noticed approximately ten minutes ago. "Captain."

Price hadn't looked up. "Hm?"

"Think you're supposed to thin that out."

"It's fine."

Gaz leaned sideways. Price's bowl was perhaps four inches tall. The walls were nearly an inch thick. "That's a lot of clay."

"It's a bowl."

"Aye," Soap chimed in from farther down the row, "a fucking ballistic one." Price ignored him.

Ghost glanced over and there was a pause. "Could stop a round." Price looked at him.

Soap's head whipped around. "Did Ghost just make a joke?"

"No."

"That was a joke."

"Wasn't."

"It was funny."

"Then it definitely wasn't."

Price continued working. The wheel turned steadily beneath his hands, his bowl remained stubbornly, aggressively intact. There were no elegant curves. No delicate rim. No decorative little foot at the base. It looked like something an archaeologist might dig out of a battlefield and immediately assume had been used to crush grain. Or skulls. Possibly both.

Price seemed satisfied. He smoothed one thumb around the rim. The wheel made another rotation, then another, until finally, he lifted his foot from the pedal.

The wheel slowed to a stop. Price sat back. "Done."

Soap looked over. "Already?"

"It's a bowl."

"Could've made it taller."

"Didn't want it taller."

"Could've made it thinner."

"Didn't want it thinner."

Gaz glanced between them. "I don't think wanting comes into it." Price looked at him. Gaz returned to his mug. "Never mind."

Price untied his apron. Apparently, as far as he was concerned, his portion of the class was complete. There was only one problem, the bowl needed to come off the wheel. Price looked toward {{user}}, and then at the bowl, and then back toward {{user}}. He waited.

There was something almost expectant in the stare. The pottery equivalent of calling over an inspector to approve completed work.

Soap noticed. "Oh, here we go." Price ignored him.

Once {{user}} came close enough to inspect the finished piece, Price shifted back to give them room. Up close, the situation was somehow worse. The bowl wasn't merely thick. It was dense. The outside was smooth enough. The bottom was solid. The opening was perfectly usable. But the walls... Jesus Christ.

Price had started with the same amount of clay as everyone else. There was no logical explanation for why the finished bowl appeared to contain approximately twice that amount. It looked heavy, it felt heavy. The moment it was carefully tested from beneath, its full weight became apparent.

Soap immediately started laughing. "Oh my fucking God."

Gaz looked over. "What?"

"Look at 'em."

Ghost's eyes shifted toward {{user}} and then toward the bowl.

Soap was openly delighted. "It's heavier than when he started!"

"It is not," Price said.

"How the fuck did ye make more clay?"

"I didn't."

"Captain, that's got its own gravitational pull."

"It's a bowl."

"That's a weapon."

Price's expression flattened. "It's a bowl."

Gaz had abandoned his own wheel now, leaning over for a better look. "Christ."

Price turned toward him. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Go on."

Gaz eyed the bowl. "...Looks sturdy."

Price gave a single approving nod. "Exactly."

Soap slapped a wet hand against his thigh. "Sturdy? Ye could cave somebody's head in with it."

Ghost regarded the piece. "Wouldn't break."

"Thank you," Price said.

Soap stared at both of them. "That is not a compliment for pottery."

Price clearly disagreed, his attention returned to {{user}}. There was still the matter of drying. A piece that thick would take longer, much longer. Uneven drying could cause cracks. Trapped moisture could become a problem during firing. There was even a chance something that substantial wouldn't survive the kiln at all without careful preparation.

Price listened. His eyes moved from {{user}} to the bowl, back again. He considered the information with the same solemn expression he might've worn while receiving an operational briefing. Then he pointed toward his creation. "It a bowl?"

Soap made a strangled noise. Price waited. The answer was undeniable. Yes. It was a bowl.

"Will it hold soup?"

Gaz turned away, shoulders already shaking. Soap covered his mouth. Ghost had gone suspiciously still.

Again... Yes. Assuming the kiln didn't reject the fucking thing as a structural hazard, it would absolutely hold soup. Probably for several generations.

Price gave one decisive nod. Apparently, that settled every concern he had. He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at his monstrosity with quiet satisfaction.

"Well." His eyes lifted to {{user}}. "Fire it."

Kyle Garrick was, for the first half hour of the class, the only normal person in Task Force 141.

Price was building a bowl capable of surviving a direct artillery strike. Soap had discovered that approximately seventy percent of pottery terminology could be made sexual if someone was sufficiently determined. Ghost was making a vase so inexplicably beautiful that everyone had quietly agreed he was hiding something.

Gaz? Gaz was just making a mug. A nice mug, actually. Nothing spectacular. Nothing that belonged in a gallery. But the clay was centered, the walls were mostly even, and there was a recognizable cylindrical shape forming beneath his hands.

He listened, he followed instructions, he asked sensible questions. For a group of men who'd walked into the studio looking more suited to kicking down a door than spending an afternoon throwing clay, Gaz had quickly established himself as the easy one.

"Like this?" His wheel slowed beneath his hands. Gaz looked toward {{user}}, one eyebrow raised as he kept his fingers lightly braced around the clay. "Feels like I'm pushing too hard." A reasonable question, and he genuinely had been. A small correction to the angle of his fingers fixed it.

"Right." Gaz nodded. "Got it." He tried again. Better, much better. "Cheers."

And that was it. Normal. Five minutes later— "Quick question." Gaz again. This time the clay had started getting slightly wider near the top. "Should it be doing that?" Another perfectly reasonable question, his pressure had become uneven. Another correction, another nod. "Right. Makes sense." Another smile. "Thanks." Still normal. Then— "Sorry. One more."

Soap looked up from his wheel.

Gaz ignored him. "How wet should my hands actually be?"

Soap's mouth opened.

Ghost pointed at him without looking away from his own vase. "Don't."

Soap closed it, Gaz's lips twitched. The answer was demonstrated. Enough water to reduce friction, not so much that the clay became oversaturated. "Got it."

Gaz dipped his fingers into the bowl. Then paused. "Actually—"

Soap made an incredulous noise. Gaz looked over. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You've got something to say."

"Nah."

Soap's grin was immediate. "You're doing great, mate."

Gaz stared at him, then returned to his wheel. "Prick." For a while, he continued on his own. The mug slowly took shape. The walls came higher, the rim needed correcting once, but otherwise, it was easily one of the better first attempts in the room. Gaz should've been fine. He was fine. Then {{user}} came past again.

His wheel slowed. "Think I've got it." He looked down at his hands, and then back up. "Could you check?"

Soap's head lifted again. Gaz didn't acknowledge him. There was nothing strange about asking the instructor to check his work. Nothing strange about shifting slightly on the stool to make room beside him, either. And when a closer demonstration became necessary, there was certainly nothing strange about letting {{user}} guide his hands into the correct position.

Gaz watched carefully, very carefully. His fingers adjusted beneath the guidance. The wheel spun slowly, and the clay moved smoothly beneath their hands. "Less pressure?" He tried it. "Like that?" His gaze stayed on the clay, mostly. "Right."

Another adjustment. His shoulder brushed lightly against {{user}}. "Think I can feel the difference." From across the room came the quietest snort imaginable. Gaz's eyes lifted.

Soap was staring directly at him. Grinning. Gaz narrowed his eyes. Soap wiggled his eyebrows. Gaz mouthed, fuck off. Soap's grin widened.

Ghost noticed the exchange. "What."

"Nothing," Gaz said.

"Gaz is learning," Soap said brightly.

Ghost glanced toward Gaz's wheel. "Looks fine."

"That's what I thought."

Gaz's jaw tightened.

Soap leaned forward. "But he keeps needin' help."

"I've asked three questions."

"Five."

Gaz frowned. "No, I haven't."

"I've been counting."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fascinated by your commitment to pottery."

Gaz stared at him.

Price, without looking up from his own wheel, muttered, "Leave him alone, Sergeant."

Soap held both hands up. "Didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"Can't prove that."

Gaz turned back toward his mug. His ears were just slightly darker than they'd been a moment ago. Still, he resumed working, for about two minutes. Then his wheel slowed again. Gaz studied the rim. There was nothing particularly wrong with it, maybe a slight wobble, barely noticeable.

His thumb passed carefully over the edge.

Once.

Twice.

Then Gaz looked toward {{user}}. "Could use another opinion."

Soap choked behind him. Gaz didn't even turn around. The space beside his stool was still open. Conveniently. He rested his forearms against his thighs, clay coating his hands nearly to the wrists. "Was thinking of bringing the top in a little." His eyes dropped toward the mug, then lifted again. A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Could show me how you'd do it?"

The pottery class had, somehow, ended without casualties. That alone felt like an accomplishment. The studio looked considerably worse for wear than it had two hours earlier. There were wet fingerprints on nearly every work surface, droplets of clay water scattered across the floor, and at least one suspicious smear on Soap's cheek that nobody had bothered telling him about.

Their finished pieces had been moved onto a long worktable near the back of the studio.

Gaz's mug had turned out surprisingly well. It leaned slightly if viewed from the wrong angle, but it was unmistakably a mug. He'd even managed to attach a handle without destroying the entire thing.

Price's bowl sat beside it. Squat and thick, unreasonably heavy. It looked less like pottery and more like something that should've been carbon-dated. Price seemed pleased with it.

Soap had produced something vaguely resembling a vase after several failed attempts. It bulged slightly around the middle and had one side taller than the other, but it stood upright, which he'd apparently decided constituted a victory.

And then there was Ghost's, the bastard. His vase sat at the end of the table looking completely out of place among the beginner pieces. Smooth walls, clean rim, a narrow neck that widened into a balanced body. It wasn't perfect, but it was close enough to be deeply irritating.

Soap had spent the last half hour periodically looking at it and muttering accusations about secret pottery lessons.

Ghost continued denying them. "Never done it before."

"Bullshit."

"Don't care if you believe me."

"Nobody accidentally makes that."

Ghost glanced toward Soap's vase. "Nobody deliberately makes that, either."

Gaz barked a laugh. Soap looked offended. "Mine has character."

"It's got scoliosis." Gaz muttered.

"Fuck you, Garrick."

Price was already washing the last of the clay from his hands. "Pack it in."

There was still a process before anything could go into the kiln. The pieces needed time to dry first. Once they reached the right stage, they'd be prepared for their first firing. Glazing would come afterward, then another trip through the kiln before everything was finally finished. Which meant nobody was taking their creation home today.

Soap seemed personally wounded by that revelation. "How long?"

A few weeks, potentially, before everything was completely finished.

"Weeks?"

Ghost looked toward him. "You got somewhere to be with that thing?"

Soap placed a protective hand near his crooked vase. "I worked hard on this."

"You sexually harassed a lump of clay for two hours."

"And look what we accomplished together."

Gaz groaned.

Price reached for his jacket. "We're leaving."

"Aye, aye."

Soap untied his apron and tossed it toward the collection basket. It missed. Price looked at it. Soap looked at Price. Then Soap walked over, picked it up, and put it properly into the basket. "Happy?"

"Immensely."

Gaz was still cleaning his hands at the sink. Ghost had stepped away from the table to retrieve his jacket, and Soap wandered toward the finished pieces.

He looked at his vase first, tilted his head. "Actually not bad."

Gaz glanced over. "It's terrible."

"Nobody asked."

Soap inspected Price's bowl next. He put both hands around it and tried lifting, tis eyebrows rose. "Jesus Christ."

Price didn't turn around. "Put it down."

"How is it this fucking heavy?"

"MacTavish."

Soap carefully returned the bowl to the table, and then he reached Ghost's vase. He stopped, looked at it, looked toward Ghost. Ghost's back was turned. Soap looked at the vase again. Something changed in his expression. It was subtle, a tiny narrowing of the eyes. The beginning of a grin. The exact expression that had preceded nearly every terrible decision he'd made since walking into the studio.

Gaz caught it from across the room. "Johnny."

Soap glanced toward him. "What?"

"Don't."

"Haven't done anything."

"That's the problem. You're thinking."

Soap placed a hand against his chest. "Hurtful."

Gaz dried his hands. "Leave Ghost's pot alone."

"Was only admiring it."

"From over there."

Soap looked toward Ghost again. Still occupied. Then his gaze dropped. A small carving tool had been left near the end of the worktable.

Soap stared at it, the carving tool stared back. There were moments in a man's life when he was presented with a choice.

A crossroads. One path led toward maturity.

Respect. Restraint. The other— Soap picked up the tool.

Gaz saw him. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Shh."

"Johnny."

"Shut up."

Soap carefully reached for Ghost's vase. He lifted it with more care than he'd shown his own creation all afternoon, supporting the base before turning it over. The bottom was smooth. Blank. Perfect, a canvas.

Soap's grin spread.

Gaz started toward him. "Don't you fucking dare."

Soap immediately turned his body, shielding the vase. "Go away."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothin'."

"You're holding a carving tool."

"Artistic expression."

"That's Ghost's."

"Exactly."

Price looked over. "What now?"

"Nothin', sir," Soap answered quickly.

Gaz pointed. "He's vandalizing Ghost's vase."

Soap gasped. "Vandalizing? I'm personalizing it."

Ghost's head turned. Soap immediately lowered the vase behind the other pieces.

"What're you doing?" Ghost asked.

"Nothin', LT."

Ghost stared at him.

Soap smiled.

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "Johnny."

"Get your coat. Captain wants to leave."

Price frowned. "I didn't—"

Soap shot him a look. Price stared back. Then, perhaps deciding he wanted absolutely no involvement in whatever was happening, Price reached for his hat. "Five minutes."

Ghost looked suspicious, but Gaz had started laughing now, which only made the entire situation worse.

Ghost glanced between them. "What."

"Nothing," Gaz managed.

"You're both shit liars."

Soap waved him away. "Go get your jacket."

"I have my jacket."

"Then... go stand by the door."

Ghost stared. Soap stared back. Several seconds passed. Finally, Ghost muttered something undoubtedly insulting and turned away.

Soap waited. One second. Two. Then immediately flipped the vase over again. "Right."

He bent over it, the carving tool touched clay. {{user}} was close enough to see the first letter appear.

L.

Soap worked carefully, turprisingly carefully.

T.

A little apostrophe.

S.

Gaz leaned over his shoulder. His expression changed. "No." Soap's shoulders were already shaking. "Johnny, no."

Soap continued.

FIRST

Gaz slapped a hand over his mouth. Soap glanced toward {{user}}. There was pure fucking evil in his eyes. Then he returned to his masterpiece.

FINGERING

He sat back.

Gaz read the finished inscription.

LT'S FIRST FINGERING

There was a long, terrible silence. Soap considered it, then picked the tool up again.

Gaz grabbed his wrist. "Absolutely not."

"Needs something."

"It does not need something."

Soap pulled free. One final scratch. A tiny heart.

LT'S FIRST FINGERING ♡

Gaz folded over against the table.

Soap looked immensely pleased with himself.

Then footsteps sounded behind them. Soap's eyes widened. He quickly returned the carving tool to exactly where he'd found it, flipped Ghost's vase upright, and carefully placed it back in its original spot.

Perfect. Innocent. Untouched.

Ghost approached. His gaze immediately moved between Soap and Gaz. "What."

Gaz couldn't answer.

Soap could. "Nothin'."

Ghost looked at his vase, then at Soap. Soap's expression didn't move.

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "Did you touch it?"

"No."

Gaz made a choking sound. Ghost looked toward him.

Soap seized the opportunity. He turned toward {{user}} and their eyes met. For one brief moment, Soap said nothing. Then that wicked grin slowly returned, he raised one finger and pressed it against his lips.

Don't tell him.

.