#soapfcrce

“We gotta stop meetin’ like this.” As in, waking from unconsciousness, tied up in some creepy murder basement together. Just once, he’d like to wake up restrained in a cheery location. Like a fucking candy store, or something. Not in a kinky way, but…well, okay, maybe in a kinky way, too…

Sheesh, did they fucking drug him, or what?

Considering his brain had cottonmouth and he was going through what felt like a major ADHD episode, Clint was gonna go ahead and guess yes. “’Just say no’ is some bullshit,” he grumbled, tugging his wrists, testing his restraints. “What’s the point in saying ‘no’ to drugs when the drugger doesn’t listen to you?” Seriously, he was really asking, here.

Good thing he's already got a bag of trail mix in his pocket. And his next choice of ammo? An M&M. His target? Soap's mouth, because you know, he could be kind. Sometimes.

It was like watching a cheesy action movie in slow motion. He hadn’t even noticed Ghost until the body of his impromptu guard had slumped over. The damage to the back of his head had him dizzy still, barely aware of the sprains in his left hand from the hard attempt to get himself untied, and this guy… “My hero. Yer late, too.” The laugh was short, pained, Soap was sure he could blame that on his ribs either being bruised or busted. Hopefully not the latter, or it was going to be hell getting out of here. He was definitely grateful for the assistance even if his arms appreciated it a lot more. Feeling a bit wobbly as he stood was probably to be expected, so he opted to use his torture chair as a crutch for a moment while he rubbed some life into his wrists. “How’d you even—” Probably best he didn’t think too hard, so he shook his head—slowly—and moved to grab the newly liberated gun at his feet. “Let’s go.”

For having a hostage who was clearly a valued soldier that people would come for, the security around the building house Soap was being held in was pathetic. Two shots fired from his handgun and a fair amount of knife throwing and he was in. Even more disappointing was enemy reinforcements were coming in, it was almost suspicious but this gang really was really that pitiful, knocking Soap out had been dumb fucking luck on their part.

Ghost pulled his knife out of the guard's throat, blood rushed out as the man gargled his last breath. "Good things come to those who wait." He glanced Soap up and down, cataloging visible injuries. The swaying most certainly meant a blow to the head, a concussion most likely. That and his left hand was swollen and turning purple. Definitely fucked himself up in desperation to get loose. It worked though.

amusement flickers for a moment as he watches johnny from across him, watching as the sergeant nods in and out of sleep, head lulling. it's only when he nudges him with his boot that he's waking up. it's almost amusing enough to make him chuckle but not quite, it doesn't stop lips curling ever so slightly, very faint under the piss poor lighting. ❛ doesn't look like it from here. ❜ he couldn't blame johnny for being tired, they've been awake for more than twenty four hours now, running on adrenaline and whatever fuel they had left. a brow quirks as he shifts where he sits, leaning forward a little.

just some tactical rubber duck

KISS ROULETTE (30. A kiss to the palm of the hand)

SCARS COME WITH THE JOB, but not everyone's got them the same exact way. Johnny's never been one to point these things out unprompted ordinarily, not when he's sober, anyway. A couple rounds of whiskey and seems like he's a lot more willing to talk about the ones on those hands of his.

Working with explosives means the chances of losing a finger or two are significantly higher than the average. Clearly. There are always stories about how the friend of a friend lost an arm or a leg in an accident. All classic things passed around like reminders that it's a nonzero probability they'll experience the same.

And maybe, just maybe, Johnny's been lucky.

Somewhere, at some point, he gets a lot closer than usual. Ghost's eyes are drawn to the shape of a hand very near to his face, and Soap's saying something along the effect of see this? Pointing out a fresh, still-healing scar, recently free from its dressing. He's talking about kissing it better, tacking his name (or title, Simon doesn't really remember) at the end with a shit-eating grin.

Sure, when Simon grabs his wrist, Johnny shifts near instantly. He looks like he's about to protest, or backtrack, tell him he's just joking in a sudden moment of clarity.

But Simon barely has to pull to place his mouth against Johnny's palm, separated only by the thin layer of his skull-print mask. He's unblinking, the cant of his head a silent challenge. Playing with fire, Sergeant?