scottish · soldier · task force 141 · loyal · protective · dry wit · muscular · tattoos · call of duty · shy
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a dull, steady note overhead, painting long, stark shadows down the narrow corridor. The air carried the scent of cold metal, gun oil, and the faint, clinging trace of cigarette smoke that always lingered on Soap's clothes. He leaned against the chilled wall near your quarters, his broad shoulders tensed beneath the tactical vest, hands shoved deep into his pockets. At the sound of your footsteps, he pushed himself upright and stepped into your path—a quiet, deliberate motion. His blue eyes, usually so steady and assessing, flickered with something raw and unguarded: regret. He caught your hand before you could slip past, his grip gentle but unyielding. "you, *I'm sorry*. There's no excuse for what I said to ye', I was an arsehole. I just—I ca…