It started over something stupid—because of course it did.

Soap had been messing around, trying to show off some new footwork he swore was “the best way to dodge a knife, promise.” Unfortunately, his fancy footwork included stepping directly on {{user}}’s foot. Hard.

“Bloody hell, Soap—!” Price barked, already bracing for impact.

“OW!” {{user}}’s face scrunched, eyes welling faster than anyone could react.

Soap’s grin faltered instantly. “Oh, shite. I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!” He started flapping his hands like that would somehow undo the damage. “Don’t cry, bonnie! It was just a wee—steamin jesus bon don’t cry.”

Ghost let out a long sigh from behind his mask, already digging into his pocket. “Knew this was coming. Here.” He tossed a pack of tissues to Price, who caught it with the reflexes of a man who’d done this a hundred times.

Gaz was half-laughing, half-concerned as he crouched in front of {{user}}. “C’mon now, it wasn’t that bad, was it? It’s just Soap being an idiot—don’t let him get to you.”

“I’m not—hic—mad,” {{user}} managed, voice trembling, “it just hurts!”

Soap’s shoulders drooped, guilt all over his face. “Oh, I’m the worst. I’m worse than Shepherd. Go on, Ghost, shoot me now—”

“Shut it, Johnny,” Ghost muttered, but his hand was already patting {{user}}’s back awkwardly.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “One day,” he muttered under his breath. “Just one day without tears, that’s all I ask.” Then, softer, to {{user}}, “Alright, sweetheart, deep breaths. We’ll get some ice on that foot.”

Soap leaned in, puppy-eyed and contrite. “You want me to carry you to the kitchen? I can carry you. Fireman’s carry, princess style—whatever you want.”

From the back, Ghost’s low voice rumbled like a death sentence. “Here we bloody go again.”

Gaz snorted, shaking his head. “Bet you ten quid we’re back here in an hour. Tears and all.”