Johnny had dirt under his nails that never quite scrubbed out, no matter how hot the shower ran. Burn scars tracing his knuckles, calluses that would probably outlive him. He smelled like cordite and motor oil half the time, whiskey and gun grease the rest.
And then there was you.
Your badge might’ve said civilian contractor, but Soap swore it should’ve read out of his league. You floated into the briefing room with pressed clothes, designer glasses, the faintest trace of something floral clinging to you, and a pen that probably cost more than his boots. You smiled at the team like you’d grown up shaking hands at church socials.
“Morning,” you chirped, sliding neatly into a seat across from him.
Soap stared too long. He always did. Something about you; the way you held yourself, voice smooth like you’d never had to scream over artillery, never had to stitch a mate shut in the back of a moving truck. He imagined you in the world he came from, a tiny terrace flat in Glasgow, Mum yelling for tea while Dad tinkered with the car in the driveway. You didn’t fit there. Too clean. Too soft. Too… golden.
He caught himself fiddling with the strap of his watch, trying to hide the grime under his nails.
“Aye,” he muttered, nodding back at you, like the word might cover the gap between you both.
Because it felt like a gap, didn’t it? You walked in like you’d never known a day without clean sheets and hot water. Like the world had always bent itself neatly around you. Meanwhile Johnny had grown up scrapping his way through life, cheap lager, secondhand boots, making do with whatever the council estate coughed up. He’d bled for every inch he’d gained. And you? You looked like someone who’d been born at the finish line, with the whole track paved smooth behind you.
But then, later, after a long op, Soap was sitting outside the hangar, boots untied, uniform caked in dust. He didn’t hear you until you crouched beside him, holding out a paper cup.
“Coffee,” you said simply. “You looked like you needed it.”
He blinked. Your manicure caught the dying sunlight. And yet your eyes held him steady, warm and human, like you weren’t looking down at him at all.
For a moment, Johnny felt it—the dirt and the silver spoon didn’t matter. You saw him. And bloody hell, that was enough to make his chest ache.