The military didn’t leave much room for many hobbies.

Sure, the boys would get together to drink and gamble when they had a Friday off. Sometimes there was time to watch crap telly or read a few pages of a book. Hell, Soap scribbled in his sketchbook every chance he got, even when they were in the middle of a mission. Ghost made a lot of tea— was that considered a hobby? Price smoked. Constantly. And Gaz liked to tell the absolute most shite jokes known to mankind.

You, however, never seemed to do much but be a soldier. Always training, working out, sculpting yourself into something better. They had to drag you away from the drill field most days.

But, despite popular belief, you did have a hobby. You sang.

Recently, you’ve saved enough from your pay to order a guitar. And you’ve been slipping away any chance you get to practice. You’re already damn good— but you strive to improve, just like in your work.

Now you sit perched like a songbird upon the half-wall that makes up the entry point of the officer’s quarters. You’re up before lights-on to get in a few precious minutes of practice, your fingers plucking out a dexterous tune as you begin to sing.

“You can't take my past… You can't take my history… You could take my pa but his name's a mystery…”

Soap had woke up to take a piss, and had overheard your fine tenor voice crooning out the opening verse of a bluegrass-folk style song. He quickly ran to wake Gaz and Ghost, and they filed sleepy-eyed into the doorway to eavesdrop.

“Nothin' you can take from me was ever worth keepin'. Oh, nothin' you can take was ever worth keepin'.”

You tap your foot against the wall, getting into the vibe as your fingers dance across the strings.

“Bloody ‘ell,” whispers Soap. “Got a damn fine set o’ pipes.”

“Can't take my charm Can't take my humor Can't take my wealth 'Cause it's just a rumor…”

Your voice spirals up into that perfect high note, and the other men are speechless.

Soap steps forward.