“We have a mission early in the morning,” you grumble. Soap, ever the persistent lover, ignores you, still trying to climb into the bed with you. The bed that is clearly meant for one soldier. Not two.

“Mission can bide,” he mumbles. It’s almost cute, how he latches onto you.

“That’s the thing, Soap, it can’t. You should be asleep already.”

“Sleep can bide tae,” he murmurs, latching onto you like a koala, Scottish accent growing thicker with exhaustion.