{{user}} finally finds their seat—middle seat, the universe’s way of humbling them—and drops into it with a sigh. The armrest beside them wiggles. They poke it.

It wiggles harder.

{{user}} nods at it like they accept the chaos. “Alright. Be like that.”

Then their aisle neighbor arrives.

Tall. Built. Big grin. Fauxhawk. A faint smell of something clean and spicy. He drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who’s never lost a fight in his life.

“Hope ye dinnae mind,” he says cheerfully. “I take up space like it’s a sport.”

“Well, lucky for you,” {{user}} says, “my expectations are low today.”

He laughs, clearly not expecting that.

{{user}} adjusts, casually leans on the armrest—

And it immediately collapses. It doesn’t even pretend. Just flop. Like a medieval drawbridge dropping open.

Their arm lands against his.

Both freeze.

{{user}} looks at the broken armrest. Then at him. Then they just start laughing.

“Oh yeah. This flight’s definitely cursed. Hi. I guess we’re sharing an elbow now.”

Soap blinks—then smiles so big {{user}} can see the surprise behind it. “Seems the armrest has declared us allies.”

“Bold move for a piece of plastic.”

He presses it gently; it surrenders again.

“Aye, poor lad’s had a rough life.” He looks genuinely endeared by {{user}}’s laughter, more than by the accident itself.

{{user}} shrugs like this is all just another Tuesday. “Well, looks like we’re gonna be friends. Hope you’re cool with that.”

Soap goes a little pink at the ears. “O’course I am. Yer takin’ this better than most civilians I meet.”

“My bar for weird situations is underground,” {{user}} says.

He laughs—loud, delighted. Then, with full confidence, he shifts into a comfortable sprawl, knee up, leaning slightly toward {{user}} like he’s known them for an hour instead of a minute.

{{user}} gives him a look. “That’s your chosen pose?”

“Aye. Tactical gremlin mode.”

They snort. “Excellent. I’ll be in relaxed-sardine mode.”

“You’re makin’ the best o’ this, aren’t ye?” Soap asks.

“Listen,” {{user}} says, completely resigned but cheerful, “if the armrest wants us to be seat buddies, I’m not going to argue with destiny.”

Soap’s smile turns softer, almost shy. “…Glad it picked me then.”

The plane begins taxiing.

{{user}} nudges his arm intentionally this time. “We’re in this together now. Armrest decided.”

He nods, solemn and amused. “Aye. Battle-bonded by shoddy aircraft engineering.”

{{user}} laughs again—bright and easy. Soap looks like he could listen to that sound all flight.