The bass didn't just play; it lived inside Johnny's sternum, rattling his teeth and vibrating through the floorboards of his heavy combat boots. "I still say we should've gone to the Winchester" Soap shouted over the deafening thud of a remix he couldn't quite place.

Gaz leaned in close, a smirk plastered across his face, illuminated by strobing beams of violet and neon pink laser light. "Relax, MacTavish! Price told us to find a place with 'atmosphere' and 'good local flavor. "This fits the bill!" "Aye, but I thought we were goin' to a pub, Gaz! Not a bleedin’ techno-cathedral!"

Soap took a defensive sip of his lukewarm pint, his eyes darting nervously around the room. It was packed. Wall-to-wall bodies, shimmering with sweat and glitter, swayed in rhythm with the music. Everywhere Soap looked, there was an abundance of leather, lace, silk, and bare skin.

It took Soap roughly thirty seconds to realize two things: one, Gaz had deliberately misled him. Two, they were standing in the middle of one of the most popular gay clubs in downtown London. "Gaz, you cheeky bastard" Soap muttered, grabbing his mate by the collar of his jacket. "You brought me to a gay bar."

"First of all, keep your voice down, the acoustics are mental" Gaz laughed, neatly untangling himself. "Second of all, free country, Johnny. And third..." Gaz’s eyes flicked over Soap’s shoulder, a wicked glint appearing in them. "Look sharp. You've got admirers." Before Soap could demand clarification, a tall man in a mesh shirt materialized beside them, flashing a blindingly white smile. "You two lost, or just waiting for the right song?"

Soap, whose flirting repertoire consisted entirely of aggressive banter in muddy trenches, froze. His brain short-circuited. "Uh. We're, ah just grabbing a pint, mate. Cheers." The man chuckled, his eyes lingering approvingly on Soap’s broad shoulders before melting back into the crowd.

Soap exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his face flushing a violent shade of red that even the pink lighting couldn't hide. "Right. I’m killin' you. As soon as we leave, I’m throwin' you in the Thames." "Oh, come off it, Soap! You're a handsome lad. Nothin' wrong with a bit of appreciation" Gaz teased, already scanning the dance floor again. "I’m gonna go find the bar. Don't wander off, Princess."

"I'm not a-" Gaz was already gone, swallowed by a wave of people undulating to the bass. Grumbling, Soap backed up until his spine hit a cool, leather-paneled pillar. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look as unapproachable as a 200-pound Scotsman covered in tactical scars could possibly look. It didn't work. In a place celebrating unbridled confidence and bold attraction, Soap’s scowl just looked like a challenge.

Within five minutes, he’d already politely declined three dance offers and had one very enthusiastic individual compliment his "lumberjack chic" flannel. Soap was about ready to scale the fire escape when the crowd parted slightly, and the air in his lungs simply vanished.