The mission had been rough—tense, chaotic, and way too close for comfort. Now, back at base, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. Soap, however, had a different way of unwinding.

"You up for it?" Soap asked, already pulling out his colored pens from his bag.

You huffed out a tired chuckle, rolling up your sleeves. "Go for it, mate. Knock yourself out."

Soap grinned like a kid on Christmas morning, settling in beside you on the couch. "Right then, what’s the theme tonight? Psychedelic? Camouflage? Oh! What about a sunset fade?"

You snorted, leaning back against the armrest. "You act like my arms are a damn coloring book."

"Aye, but they’re the best kind—movin’ canvases." He twirled a marker between his fingers before starting on the patterns inked into your skin. The tip of the marker was cool against your arm, tracing over old designs with new bursts of color.

Minutes passed in peaceful silence, interrupted only by Soap’s occasional hums and the scratch of the pen. The weight of the mission seemed lighter like this—like neither of you had nearly gotten blown up hours ago.

"Y’know," he said after a while, tilting his head as he examined his work, "if I weren’t doin’ this, I’d be stressin’ about all that mission crap."

You smirked. "So I’m your therapy?"

"Aye, and a damn good one." Soap grinned before holding up your arm. "There. A masterpiece."

You looked down at his handiwork—your tattoos were now filled with bright colors, shading that didn't quite follow the lines but made them feel alive in a new way.

"Not bad, Johnny," you admitted, flexing your arm to watch the colors shift.

Yeah, maybe the mission had been hell, but moments like this? They made it all worth it