He came back from leave grinning like a devil with a secret. Shirt sleeves rolled up, sunglasses gracing his face, and the swagger of someone who’d made a decision.

“Got a tattoo,” Soap announces proudly, dragging his shirt up and twisting his torso like he's about to reveal something majestic. “Real symbolic, yeah? Somethin’ mean. Fierce. Told the bloke I wanted a falcon.”

You lean in to look.

You lean back.

“…Soap. That’s a rubber duck.”

He pauses. Blinks. Looks down at his own ribcage like surely not, like maybe your eyes are broken.

Bright yellow. Wearing a tiny army helmet. A little wink. A little grenade and bubbles around it.

He groans and flops back onto the couch, already regretting everything. “I swear I said falcon! I was drunk, yeah, but not that drunk!”

You choke, hand clamped over your mouth as you try not to scream out in hysterics, Soap throwing a cushion at your face.

“Haud yer wheesht!”