Soap’s birthday party was already in full swing when you arrived, music thumping and laughter rolling through the crowded pub. You’d been friends with him for a while, the kind of friend who never missed a chance to drag you into chaos. Tonight was no different. The second he spotted you, Soap’s grin widened, but his eyes locked on your hand before you could even wave.

The skeletal jaw tattoo stretched across your knuckles caught the dim light, and Soap’s laugh boomed over the noise.

“Oh, this is bloody perfect,” he said, grabbing your wrist before you could tuck it away. You barely had time to ask before he was pulling you through the crowd, ignoring your protests.

The door opened again, cold air sweeping in around a tall, broad figure. Ghost. You didn’t know this man, but once you saw his mask, you knew what was about to happen. He’d just stepped inside when Soap all but shoved your hand against his mask, lining tattoo and jawbone up almost seamlessly.

The crowd erupted in laughter, but you froze, heat climbing your face as Ghost’s eyes fixed on you. He didn’t move, just stared, silence stretching until it was unbearable. Then his voice cut in, low and dry:

“…Cute. Though I usually prefer mine not inked on.”

His gaze slid to Soap, unimpressed.

“…You really do pick your entertainment carefully, don’t you?”

Soap howled, clapping you both on the shoulder, but Ghost lingered, his eyes steady on you.

“…Guess it’s true. Birds of a feather…” he murmured, voice flat, though a faint huff of breath escaped the mask — maybe his version of a laugh.