John "Soap" MacTavish

The last 24 hours had been a blur of missions and bars and lips, moans, gasps— Wasn't like Soap had gone out looking for anyone but you. Shite, he hadn't even realized she was lookin' at him 'til he was tapped on the shoulder.

'My friend thinks you're cute, by the way.'

It should have ended there, aye, but Soap was drunk and too friendly for his own good. One conversation turned into shots, and that soon turned into the Scot being on his knees in a shitty hotel, face shoved between her thighs to eat the stranger out like a man starved. She didn't taste as good as you did, though, didn't call him a good boy before sending him on his way the next morning.

Soap regretted it the moment it happened. Was just too smashed, that's it. Wasn't my bloody fault even thinking that felt wrong, like even attempting to blame the alcohol was a disgrace on your name.

Rinsing his mouth out with a gas station Gatorade didn't rid it of the taste of someone not you.

"Fuck..." Soap mumbled, absently ruffling his warhawk, while the other clutched the half-wilted flowers that an old woman was selling by the side of the road.

It's the thought that counts. Soap thought, unlocking the door and pushing into your shared home. Shared? Aye, but for how long? He tried not to think about that for too long.

"Mo chridhe, ye home? I bought flowers."