🧼 snack pairings
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john “soap” mactavish x gn!reader
summary: you didn’t ask for a partner. didn’t want one, didn’t need one. especially not him—grinning in the doorway like he owned the air, too loud, too cocky, all sharp edges and swagger. but soap wasn’t so easy to shake. he cracked jokes you refused to laugh at. brought snacks you refused to take. said you’d warm up to him eventually—and worst of all, he might’ve been right.
setting: dim briefing rooms and desert skies. crates and jerky by the transport. a humming plane cabin where sleep comes slowly and silence says more than words.
warnings: lowercase prose, gn!reader, slowburn, reluctant partnership, emotional tension, soft banter, quiet introspection, mutual growing respect, subtle attraction, soap is emotionally intelligent beneath the chaos, reader is guarded, beginnings of trust, found partnership
word count: 1.5k
note: for the ones who didn’t want to let anyone in—until someone didn’t ask permission. for the loud ones who see through the silence. for when connection doesn’t spark, but simmers.
my inbox is always open ♡♡
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
the briefing room smells like old coffee and stale tension—just another grey-walled corner of command where names get paired and lives get promised to missions no one really walks away from clean.
you’re already seated when price walks in, steady as ever, the scuff of his boots announcing him long before he speaks. he’s got a file tucked under one arm and that look in his eyes—measured, unreadable, like he’s handing you something heavier than paper.
“this one’s yours,” he says simply, nodding toward the doorway.
you turn, expecting someone forgettable. what you get is... not exactly that.
he’s leaned against the doorframe like he built it, dressed in half-zipped gear, forearms bare, a jagged mohawk cutting through the dust in his hair. his grin’s already there, lazy and lopsided, like he knows exactly how obnoxious he looks.
“alright?” he says, voice thick and lilting, "name's soap."
“you.. look like ye’ve got opinions.”
you raise an eyebrow. that’s his opening line?
you don’t answer right away. just glance back to price, silently checking if this is some kind of punishment. it isn’t. worse—it’s real.
“i just prefer working alone,” you say finally, clipped and cool.
it’s not meant as an insult. just a fact. you’ve gotten used to silence, to predictability. to not having to account for someone else's pace or their recklessness. you’ve seen partnerships go sideways—one loud decision in the field, one unchecked impulse, and suddenly you’re writing names on the memorial wall.
but soap doesn’t flinch. doesn’t falter. his grin just gets wider.
“ahh,” he hums, stepping further in, “strong ‘n silent, eh? but pretty, too. dangerous combination, that.”
you blink at him. is he flirting? is he always like this?
“…was that a compliment or a warning?”
“bit o’ both,” he says with a shrug, like the difference means nothin’ to him.
and before you can tell him off or ask what the hell kind of name is soap, he’s already turning toward the exit, shouldering his pack like this is all settled.
“dinnae worry,” he calls over his shoulder, still grinning like he’s cracked some secret, “we’ll be best mates in no time.”
you just stare at his back in astonishment as he walks out. and then—loud, unapologetic, echoing down the hallway:
“brought snacks, too! bribery’s undefeated, aye?”
you don’t even realize price is still in the room until he drops the file on the table with a dull thud.
“good luck,” he mutters, a smirk hiding under his beard. “you’ll need it.”
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
the next time you see him, he’s sprawled out on a crate near the transport zone like it’s his own personal front porch.
the sun’s dipping low, casting the whole base in a haze of gold and rust, turning the concrete soft at the edges. the sky’s bleeding into itself—orange melting into pink, streaks of cloud cutting through like claw marks. the wind’s kicked up just enough to stir the sand along the tarmac, pulling it into little spirals that dance past his boots and disappear.
he’s rolled his sleeves even higher now, forearms dusted with sweat and grit, tattoos catching the light as he leans back, legs stretched out like he’s got nowhere in the world to be. there’s a strip of jerky hanging lazily from his mouth, and the way he chews it—slow and content—makes him look completely untouched by the weight of the mission briefing you just came from.
he spots you before you say a word. his eyes flick up, bright and immediate, and he lifts two fingers in a lazy wave like he’s been waiting for you all afternoon.
“still mad?” he asks, casual as anything, like you’re old friends and the last twenty-four hours haven’t been laced with tension.
you stop a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, spine stiff out of habit. “i wasn’t mad.”
his grin spreads like wildfire. “aye, sure,” he says, dragging the words out in that thick scottish drawl of his. “ye looked like ye were five seconds away from stabbin’ me in the neck wi’ a pen. not judgin’, mind—i’ve earned worse.”
you level a look at him, unimpressed. “still might.”
he laughs—really laughs—head tipping back, teeth flashing in the warm light. the sound is loud and unapologetic, echoing just enough in the open space to make a few nearby techs glance over.
“there they are,” he says, like he’s just uncovered a hidden treasure. “knew ye had a sense o’ humor tucked away in there somewhere. it’s the quiet ones, always.”
you roll your eyes, more out of instinct than anything else, and make a show of stepping past him without so much as a glance. but the corner of your mouth tugs. just a little. just enough that he might’ve seen if he were really looking.
and of course—of course—he’s looking.
he doesn't call it out, though. just lets the moment hang in the air, light and weightless, like maybe he knows not to press. not yet. instead, he shifts on the crate, leans back, and pops another piece of jerky into his mouth with a lazy shrug.
“ye’ll warm up to me,” he says, half to himself. “they always do.”
you don’t answer. don’t give him the satisfaction. but your steps don’t feel quite as heavy as they did a minute ago.
and the air doesn’t feel quite so sharp.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
later—after the heat of the day has bled away, after the long walk to the airstrip, after his too-casual jokes and that smug little wink you refused to dignify with a response—you find yourself across from him in the dim belly of a transport plane.
the cabin’s quiet now. not silent, not really—the engines are still thrumming beneath the metal floor, rattling bolts and vibrating through the thin air—but quiet in a way that settles into your skin. the kind of quiet where thoughts get louder. where the hum turns rhythmic. like a pulse. like breath.
you should be asleep. or at the very least, reviewing the mission schematics on the screen in your lap, pretending to focus. instead, your gaze keeps drifting.
to him.
johnny. soap. maybe a dumb nickname, whatever name you’re supposed to be calling him. you still haven’t decided which feels more real.
he’s slouched in his seat across the aisle, limbs spilling into the empty space around him like he owns it. arms folded over his chest, chin tipped down, head bumping gently against the wall of the plane with every small shudder of turbulence.
his mohawk’s a little crushed from the weight of his gear, and there’s a shadow of grime streaked along one side of his face, like he forgot to wipe off the day. or maybe he just didn’t care.
his foot twitches every so often. small, restless movements, like even in sleep, something in him refuses to go fully still. like he’s dreaming of running. of fire. of chaos. the kind of dreams you don’t talk about when you wake up.
you study him for longer than you mean to.
and you hate that you are.
because you’re supposed to be annoyed. you’re supposed to not like him.
he talks too much. always has something to say, even when no one asks. he’s loud and infuriatingly confident and seems to find amusement in every last thing, even the serious stuff. especially the serious stuff.
he gets under your skin in the worst way—like a splinter. like grit in your boot.
and yet... there’s something about him that pulls at you.
something steady beneath all the showmanship. something heavy under the jokes. the noise, the charm, the crooked grin—maybe all of that’s just surface. maybe it’s the shell. the distraction. the thing he wears to keep people from seeing what’s really underneath.
because there’s weight to him. you can feel it, even now. even here. like he’s lived too much for someone who laughs that easy. like he’s bled more than he lets on.
and you think—no, you know—that if it came down to it, he’d throw himself in front of a bullet for someone on his team without blinking. you see it in the way he watches the exits. how he checks gear that isn’t his. how he carries the silence between jokes like it’s familiar.
you shift slightly in your seat. drag your gaze away.
your chest feels tight in a way you can’t quite explain.
you don’t trust him. not yet. trust is slow. messy. something built one moment at a time, and this—whatever this is—is still brand new.
but the idea of working beside him doesn’t feel quite as unbearable as it did when price first dropped his name like a weight on the table.
he’s kind of growing on you.
not in a way that’s soft. not yet. but in a way that feels inevitable. like moss creeping up stone. like something you didn’t notice until it was already there, clinging to you.
you don’t want to admit it—not to yourself, not to anyone—but maybe the bastard was right. maybe you will warm up to him.
maybe you already are.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
