John “Soap” MacTavish x reader
a/n: a little short blurb :)
The night had that kind of quiet that only comes after the first heavy snowfall. Soft, thick, and still. The world around him had gone pale, but all Soap MacTavish could see was her.
He leaned against the hood of his truck, breath fogging in the bitter air, eyes fixed on the light spilling from her apartment window. It wasn’t much, just a dim glow framed by half-drawn curtains, but it was enough to keep him standing there longer than he probably should’ve. Enough to remind him what warmth looked like when the rest of his life was all frost and steel.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to want to be here. But somewhere between the gunfire and the ghosts, she’d found a way into the cracks of him, quietly, naturally, like sunlight sneaking past the blinds.
He thought about the last time he’d seen her, hair mussed from the wind, cheeks flushed, laughing at something he’d said that wasn’t even that funny. He’d never known someone so soft without being fragile. Someone who made him want to be gentle.
A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. He’d crossed countries for missions that meant nothing compared to this moment, standing outside her place, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of his chest.
He’d crawl through the snow for her if she asked, bare hands and bleeding knuckles, didn’t matter. If she needed him, he’d go. If she wanted him, he’d stay.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, another mission, another call to leave, and he stared at it for a long time before letting it fall silent.
From the window, she moved. Just a silhouette, maybe making tea, maybe humming to herself. He couldn’t hear her, but he imagined it anyway.
Soap smiled faintly, a kind of ache in the curve of it. “You’ve no idea what you do to me, lass,” he whispered to the quiet, voice low and rough with something that wasn’t quite sadness.
He wanted to tell her everything. That he’d shout her name from the nosebleeds if that’s all he could ever be, that he’d freeze in the snow if it meant being close to her, that he was down for her in every way a man could be.
But for now, he just watched.
Watched her light flicker against the frost, warmth against the dark.
And when she finally opened the window just a crack, just enough for the cold to slip out and his heart to lurch, he swore she looked right at him.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
Her silhouette paused in the windowlight, hand hovering mid-air like she’d forgotten what she was doing. Snow drifted past her glass in lazy spirals, landing on his jacket, melting down the back of his neck. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
For a second, he thought about turning away, slipping into the night like he hadn’t been there at all. But he’d been gone too long, seen too much, and he was tired of leaving things unsaid.
So he raised a hand. Just a small wave. Nothing grand.
Still, it felt like the bravest thing he’d done in months.
She blinked, then smiled, slow, soft, surprised. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for explanations, just offered warmth. She disappeared from the window, and before he could think to doubt it, the front door opened.
Her voice carried across the snow, warm against the cold. He swallowed hard, boots crunching as he stepped forward.
“Hey, lass.” His breath came out ragged, like her name had stolen the air right out of him. “Didn’t mean to wake ye.”
“You didn’t,” she said, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. “You’re freezing. What are you doing out here?”
Soap hesitated. There were a thousand answers, none of them simple. “Just… needed to see ye.”
She laughed under her breath, soft and disbelieving. “You could’ve texted.”
“Aye, could’ve,” he said, his accent rougher now, the way it got when his guard slipped. “But you might’ve said no.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Sadness, maybe, or something gentler. “And if I had?”
He looked down at the snow, scuffed the toe of his boot through it. “Would’ve stood here anyway. Guess I’m just that daft.”
The silence between them stretched. The only sound was the quiet fall of snow and the slow thud of his heart.
She stepped closer. He could see the reflection of the streetlight in her eyes, could smell the faint trace of her perfume, something warm and sweet that didn’t belong in the kind of world he lived in.
“John…” she started, and he could hear it, the worry, the question, the ache she didn’t know how to name.
“I’m not askin’ for anything,” he said quickly, voice low. “Just wanted ye to know… I’m proud of ye. Of the life you’ve built. I see it—how good it is. You’re… you’re light, love. And I’m just—” He laughed, a broken sound. “I’m just a fan in the nosebleeds, yeah? Clappin’ for ye from far away.”
Her brow furrowed. “Don’t say that.”
He shrugged, trying for easy, failing miserably. “It’s true enough.”
She took another step closer, close enough that he could feel her breath against his jaw. “You don’t have to stay far away.”
“Maybe not,” he said softly. “But it’s safer for ye if I do.”
She frowned at that, and something in him twisted. He reached up, brushing a bit of snow from her hair with trembling fingers. “I’d crawl through a bloody blizzard just to see that smile again. Doesn’t mean I should.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. He wanted to take them back and mean them all at once.
Her hand found his wrist, small and steady. “Then stay for tonight. Just tonight.”
He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what peace might feel like.
He nodded once, sharp and quiet, and followed her inside.
The door shut behind them, muting the world to nothing but the sound of melting snow and the heartbeat he’d been chasing all along.
And though he told himself it was just one night, he already knew, he’d fall for her again in the morning.
