Tysm for the tag aaaaa 🫶🫶🫶 I am siccing my followers on you to read the soaproach WIP you posted!! Tagging some of my lovelies:
@randomwordsandstormydays @grechka-zhest @boxofthings and any other fic writers that follow me who wanna join in!!
Here's a little soaproach thing of my own under the cut. Older and only slightly 🤏 edited so I'm sorry if its bad XD
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Sanderson hunched on the stoop under a yellow sconce light. Hearing Soap approach, he glanced up from his phone, quickly slamming it in his pocket and removing his hand from the other one in hopes that Soap wouldn’t notice. Futile, but Soap was too exhausted to call him on it and decided to pick his battles.
“Morning, Captain!” Roach said with a salute. His rifle in its sling peaked over his shoulder while his helmet sat on the step, night vision goggles already attached.
“Sergeant,” he nodded. “Hope ye weren’t waitin’ long.”
“Better waiting in the cold than late,” Sanderson muttered. He didn’t seem to want to be there either.
“Smart lad.”
Soap unclipped the carabiner on his belt with the keyring and fumbled them, trying to find the correct one with numb fingers. The frozen brass stuck to them as it finally turned, only after he’d tried every key and circled around to the first. Apparently, the warmth of his curse-laden breath melted what ice stuck the lock. Now that the knob turned the door should have moved, but of course its old wood had swollen and jammed. Soap bodied it with his shoulder once, twice as it squeaked in protest, then a third finally dislodged it from the frame.
He was rewarded with a tumble into stale air only moderately warmer than that outside. Sanderson flicked on the lights while they set up, since the Captain b-lined for a flock of space heaters bunched in the corner and searched for one with unbent prongs and unexposed wiring.
The bay ran along the front of the building, only deep enough for a small walkway behind where soldiers lay prone to test their weapons. Past this, the range itself stretched a few hundred feet to the far wall where targets were hung--where Sanderson busied himself.
Luck graced Soap with two non-hazardous heaters. He plugged them in at the closest outlets framing Sanderson’s lane. Looking out at the Sergeant, Soap noticed he put out a target for his captain as well. Soap also noticed how quickly he grew frustrated as his cold, uncoordinated fingers stuck to the tape when he tried to fix it in place, and how he stormed back to the bay under the assumption he went unwatched.
Sanderson returned with a huff and straightened his shoulders. He had on a hat and scarf to stave off the cold, covering his brown buzz cut that was a little longer on top. Just long enough it tried to curl. Without goggles, his green eyes looked everywhere but at Soap’s own. He wore his typical combat gaiter, covering a strong jawline; pointed chin; and thin, chapped lips. Not the most expressive, resting face usually neutral at worst, more commonly with eyebrows raised in polite attention and a slight smile Soap know to look for. Now, even through the fabric, the Sergeant frowned so harshly it furrowed his brow.
“Don’t look so happy to see me,” Soap half-joked. The last thing he needed was an underling with an attitude. He hated doing it to Sanderson, but he’d chew him up and spit him out for it if need be. He just wanted their shitty morning over with so he could eat.
“Huh? Oh, sorry, Captain. Just… cold.”
“Mhm. You asked for this, Sanderson. What did ye think was gonna fookin’ happen? We get here n’ the birds ’re chirpin’ and we have a lovely time?”
Soap didn’t think he sounded that pissed. Unfortunately, Sanderson only responded with a quiet, “No, sorry. Guess I—I guess I should’ve expected this.” Then, he skirted around Soap to the loading table and pulled ammo boxes from his pockets, retrieving the rifle from across his back afterward. His helmet sat next to him, and as he checked that his rifle was in working order nearly knocked it off. Soap saw anger bubble up inside him before he cracked his knuckles to release the tension.
Rifle loaded, he squatted beside the sandbags in his lane and replaced his hat with his helmet. “Hit the lights for me, Cap?”
Noticing the man hadn’t donned earmuffs yet, Soap grabbed a pair for each of them and sauntered over. Honestly, such a basic mistake warranted an ass-chewing; however, Soap didn’t have the energy for it, and something told him neither did Sanderson.
Instead, he teased with a sly smile, “Come oan. Don’t tell me yer goin’ unprotected. Yer smarter than that, lad.”
Sanderson stared straight ahead and took the earmuffs his captain dangled on a finger.
Soap crouched there in his personal space and waited for the grateful response a man of his title was due from an inferior. From an inferior he was going easy on. As the moments passed, Sanderson’s knuckles only turned white squeezing the headband of the muffs. Soap squinted and leaned in closer, trying to pressure any sort of thanks out of Sanderson before being forced to reprimand his attitude.
Nothing.
“Sergeant.”
“Captain?”
“Let’s nip this in the bud.” Soap leaned impossibly close and hissed in his ear, “Listen to me. I know yer tired, ‘cause I’m tired, too. It’s too early fer this, n’ it’s waaaay too cold. But, through hell n’ high water, I wrestled the range master n’ RSOs to get approval for this. I had to resubmit the same damn form three damn times after they gave me the wrong one. Had to submit it a fourth after they fooked up in the admin section and couldn’t just white it out for some shite reason. I set this all up, walked all the way out here in the dead of winter in the middle of the night ‘cause you asked fer it, and now I’m tryin’ to make the most of it while yer makin' rookie mistakes and bein’ a right cunt!”
Roach remained stupidly quiet.
Soap's nostrils flared as he scowled. He couldn’t contain it any longer. He pulled away and exploded, “Well, this is the last fookin’ time I’ll ever do somethin’ nice fer ye! I don’t even know why I bother goin' outta my way fer an ungrateful sergeant brat. I've had recruits act better than this. Yer not worth it, Sanderson. Yer not fookin’ worth my time.”
With shaking fingers Sanderson checked that the safety of his rifle was engaged and set it aside. Then he blinked rapidly, brought his knuckles to his eyes, and his face contorted like a child’s, and Soap realized he wasn't shaking from the cold. There Roach was, ripping at the seams like he'd never been yelled at before—which was unbelievably false. He was a soldier, for heaven’s sake. He’d been yelled at daily since the day he signed enlistment papers.
It made Soap's stomach sick, half fed up with the sorry excuse in front of him, half worried. “Hold it to-fucking-gether! The hell's wrong with ye‽” He asked.
