The safehouse reeked of cordite and damp plaster.

Soap liked it that way.

There was something about the aftermath of a clean op that settled him, the ringing in his ears, the adrenaline still humming under his skin, the sharp clarity that came when the chaos finally stopped. Tonight’s mission had gone textbook. Quick breach. Tight corners. Hostiles down before they could even shout.

He’d taken point on entry, boot through the door, flash out, two hostiles down before they’d even properly registered what hit them. Clean. Efficient. Textbook. But the target had almost slipped.

Almost.

And that was enough to sour his mood. Now the bastard sat cuffed to a chair in the middle of the room, face bruised, lip split, breathing hard through his nose, but still smirking like he had a secret.

Soap stood in front of him, hands on his hips at first, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. He looked casual.

He wasn’t.

That annoyed Soap.

You stood near the wall, posture straight, expression unreadable, Captain, Executive Officer. When Price wasn’t here, command rested with you. Soap respected that. Always had. You were steady when things went sideways. Clear when others weren’t.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t itching.

Soap paced once in front of the prisoner, rolling tension from his shoulders. His mohawk was damp with sweat, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms still marked from the scuffle.

“You’ve caused us a right headache, pal,” he muttered, voice already edged with that thick Scottish bite.

The prisoner smirked.

“A headache?” he replied lazily. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Soap’s jaw flexed.

He stepped forward slowly, boots heavy against the concrete. He grabbed the front of the chair and dragged it closer in one sharp scrape that echoed around the room.

“Listen tae me very carefully,” he said, voice dropping, accent thickening as irritation bled through. “You don’t get tae sit there all smug like you’ve won somethin’.”

Soap’s hand shot out, gripping the front of the man’s shirt and hauling him forward so fast the chair screeched violently against the floor. The metal legs scraped, tipping dangerously before slamming back down.

“You think this is funny?” Soap snapped, voice rising now, brogue thickening. “You think I’m in the mood for yer wee games?”

The prisoner winced but still grinned.

“You won’t do anything.”

Soap barked a humorless laugh.

“Won’t I?” He leaned in close, nose almost touching the man’s. “I’ve had a shite day, mate. Real shite. And you’re about two seconds away from bein’ the worst decision I make tonight.”

His fist clenched at his side, knuckles whitening. He wasn’t posturing. He was furious. The kind of anger that came from thinking about innocent people paying for this man’s smug silence.

“Stand down, Sergeant.”

Your voice cut through the room clean and controlled. Soap didn’t react immediately. His shoulders were tight, breath heavy, eyes locked on the prisoner like he was deciding whether command outweighed instinct.

For a second, it looked like it might not.

Then Soap swore under his breath. “Ah, for fuck’s sake…”