John 'Soap' Mactavish

Soap had been patient—too patient, if anyone asked him. Weeks of effort, weeks of pushing the limits of charm, weeks of deliberately toeing the line between comrade and something more. He’d poured pint after pint of that restless energy into tiny gestures: the coffee that always seemed to appear in tired hands before dawn, the jacket he’d tossed across slumped shoulders in the chill of late-night briefings, the way he lingered just a little too close during sparring sessions, letting his grin do the talking when words failed.

And every single time, it slipped through his fingers.

A laugh. A clap on the back. A quick “cheers, Johnny” before the moment scattered like smoke.

They never saw it for what it was. They never let it be more.

To anyone else, maybe that would’ve been the end of it. Maybe they would’ve taken the hint, swallowed the sting, and moved on. But Soap? He wasn’t wired for quitting. Not when his chest tightened every time he caught a glance, not when his stomach twisted with something uncomfortably close to longing.

If small gestures didn’t work, he’d just have to make a grand one.

That’s how he found himself scheming. It was daft—completely mental, really. But daft was sometimes the only way forward. If charm hadn’t cracked the wall, maybe comedy would. And Soap knew the exact opportunity.

Laundry day.

He knew the routine, like he knew the rhythm of gunfire or the snap of a football against his boot. The hum of machines, the scent of detergent thick in the air, the predictable way clothes cycled in and out like clockwork. He’d seen it often enough. This was the moment. This was his opening.

So he dressed for the part. Shorts—clean, snug, riding high enough to show off thighs built from years of drills and football alike. A thin shirt, just clingy enough, clinging more from the push-ups he’d knocked out beforehand than any real sweat. Dog tags glinting against his chest, casual but unmistakably him.

He crept into the laundry room, quiet as a man could manage when nerves made every movement feel clumsy. The room was empty, machines silent for the moment. Perfect.

He crouched down, shoved his head and shoulders deep into the open mouth of the dryer, bracing his palms on the rim. Cold steel pressed against his cheeks, the scent of lint and fabric softener crowding his nose. He could hear the quick beat of his own pulse louder than anything else.

He swallowed, bit the inside of his cheek, and let the grin come anyway as he heard their footsteps come in. Showtime.

“Oh no…” he called, pitching his voice high, mock-dramatic. “Looks like I’m stuck.”

His words echoed inside the drum, bouncing back at him like a joke told to no one. He shifted his legs for effect, bent his knees, made sure the shape of him was obvious, thighs and calves tensing as if he were really straining.

“Decorated soldier, hero of Urzikstan,” he muttered under his breath, smirking, “brought low by a bloody dryer.”

Then louder: “Oi! Bit of a situation here. Could use a hand, aye?”

The laugh he forced out was sheepish, muffled by the metal casing. It was part of the performance—half helpless, half inviting.

But under it, nerves prickled sharp. This wasn’t about the joke, not really. He wasn’t here to pull off some elaborate gag just for the laugh. This was a gamble. A last-ditch effort to be seen—properly seen—for what he’d been trying to show for weeks.

He wanted footsteps. He wanted the pause in the doorway, the disbelief, the exasperated sigh. He wanted hands to reach for him, to tug him back by the shoulders, maybe linger for half a second too long. He wanted eyes to linger, to catch on the way he filled the shorts, on the way his body strained inside the cramped machine.

Because if that happened, if this ridiculous stunt made something click, then maybe—just maybe—all the coffee, the jackets, the sidelong grins would finally make sense.

And if it didn’t? Well. At least he’d go down swinging. At least he’d know he tried.

Soap held himself there, head buried in the dryer, legs planted wide, heart hammering louder than any battlefield chaos, and waited. Every second stretched, every small sound in the room sharpening into something enormous. His grin faltered, then grew again, the edges braced against his own nerves.

Soap stayed there, head buried in the machine, legs planted wide, heart racing harder than it did on the battlefield, waiting to hear whether his gamble would pay off.