Soap’s sick.

The stubborn, sniffly, too-proud-to-rest kind of sick. Captain benched him for the week, which means he’s been holed up in his room, bored out of his mind and living off cough drops and combat level tea brews.

You were just supposed to bring him some paperwork. That’s it. Drop it off. Go.

But then he’s there: reclined on his bed like a prince in exile, voice rough with congestion and sarcasm, watching you drop the reports on his messy desk.

“Dinnae judge the socks,” he rasps. “They multiply when I’m not lookin’.”

His room is so him.

Messy bed. Boots in a corner. Half-folded laundry on a chair. An old rugby ball under the desk. Photos tacked above the headboard, some peeling at the corners, all clearly handled more than once.

“Go on then,” he rasps from the bed, hand waving vaguely at the mess like he’s inviting you into a confessional. “Have a looksee 'round. I know you’re curious.”

He tells you the stories. One by one. Short, rambling little things, told between sniffles and sharp exhales. You don’t even realize he’s been watching you the whole time, eyes tracking your every movement like he’s memorizing it. Like the room’s never felt warmer.

“You’re pokin’ around like you’ll find my secrets in there,” he murmurs, smile curling lazy and small at the edges. “They’re under the bed. Obvious place, really.”

You laugh.

He grins wider.