Everyone on base knows how Soap draws, that he carries a notebook full of beautifully detailed sketches and notes. They also know not to even try looking inside it if they value their skin. What they don't know is that off base Johnny is a potter.
The garage off his tiny cottage welcomes him with the cool earthy scent of clay when he's on leave. In just jeans and an old apron he lets himself dig into the clay, the tacky sensation familiar like the C4 he uses in the outside world. He wedges his clay, getting into the familiar rhythm as he forces the air out. Settling on his wheel and centering the clay Johnny starts the process of throwing his base shape.
His mind clears and he finds himself focusing like in the field except instead of the hard metal of a rifle it's the cool grit of clay in his hands. Instead of taking life he feels himself bringing life into art.
And, oh, is it life.
He closes his eyes and runs his hands over plains and valleys he can only see in memory. Underneath his fingers he pushes and pinches in ridges and dips, mapping out scar tissue and muscle like he sketches in lead. The morning light bleeds into afternoon and when he opens his eyes again it's to the golden light of sundown shining through a window.
Johnny lets his gaze travel to bust in front of him, seeing the colours in his minds eye. "Hello, Simon."
