The night had been a riot from the start. Soap had knocked back drink after drink, his accent thickening, his laughter louder with each round. It was his birthday, and the team was celebrating the only way they knew how—drinks, chaos, and terrible decisions. Gifts were passed around, most of them practical—knives, ammo, a custom flask—but when you tossed him a sweater with a massive Scottish flag on the front, he froze.

Soap stared at it like you’d just handed him the crown jewels, mouth parted in pure wonder before he looked at you, eyes damn near sparkling. “Yer takin’ the piss,” he breathed. “Dead serious,” you grinned, watching as he clutched it to his chest like a lifeline. “That’s real love, that,” Gaz snickered.

He vanished after that, off to do who-knew-what. The party carried on, drinks flowing, laughter filling the base—until the room practically shook with his return. Soap burst in, eyes wild, face flushed, and wearing a full-blown kilt with the sweater stretched across his chest.

Hands on his hips, he threw his head back and bellowed, “SCOTLAND FOREVER!” The entire room erupted. Ghost damn near choked on his drink, Gaz was wheezing, and Price just took a long, slow sip of his whiskey like he was reconsidering his life choices.

It didn’t help that Scotland was playing on the TV behind him, the match blaring as Soap swayed slightly, pointing at the screen. “We’re gonna WIN,” he announced, as if sheer willpower could make it happen. Ghost groaned. “Jesus Christ, sit down before you fall down.” But Soap ignored him, turning to you with that lopsided grin, blue eyes burning with mischief. “So, what d’you think, bonnie?” He spun, showing off the kilt like it was some grand unveiling. “Dashing, aye?” He waggled his eyebrows at you.