He’s handled explosives with steadier hands than this.
Soap stands just outside the doorway like it might bite him if he gets too close, one hand fisted around a small, slightly battered bouquet that has seen better days. Not dead. Just… experienced. Like they went through a bit of a journey. Like him, apparently.
“Right,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his weight. “In. You go in. That’s how doors work, genius.”
He doesn’t move.
His free hand drags over the back of his neck, then through his hair, then immediately drops like he’s caught himself mid-crime.
[internal - Soap] Brilliant, MacTavish. Fix the hair again. That’ll fix the whole personality issue, aye?
He exhales, sharp and quiet, like he’s trying not to spook himself.
This is ridiculous.
He’s faced down things that would make most men reconsider their entire life plan, and here he is...paused. Stuck. Negotiating with a door because there’s a person on the other side of it who makes his brain forget its job.
It’s not even complicated. He just wants to ask. That’s it.
Simple question. Words. Sentences. Human interaction.
Except every time he thinks about actually saying it, his head fills with static and worst-case scenarios like a radio stuck between stations.
He presses his thumb into the stems of the flowers, grounding himself.
“Just...ask them,” he whispers. “You’ve said worse things to people. You’ve said very questionable things to Ghost, and he still talks to you.”
A pause.
“…barely.”
There’s a flicker of something softer under the nerves. Something quieter, but heavier. Because it’s not just asking.
It’s the way he notices things he never used to: how he clocks the sound of their voice before anything else in a room, how his shoulders loosen without him deciding to, how he’s started remembering small details like they matter.
Like they matter.
[internal - Soap] This is bad. This is properly bad. You’re gone, mate. Absolutely gone.
He lets out a breath that turns into a quiet, almost-laugh.
“Flowers,” he says, looking down at them like they might offer tactical advice. “Good start. Classic. Not weird at all. No pressure attached. Just a nice, normal...”
He stops.
“…they’re not too much, are they?”
He turns the bouquet slightly, inspecting it like it might suddenly reveal an opinion.
“Could be too much. Could be way too much. Might look like I’m… declaring something. I’m not declaring anything. I’m just—asking.”
A beat.
“…with flowers.”
[internal - Soap] Aye. Subtle. Like a flare gun in a dark room.
He snorts under his breath, shaking his head.
“Ten out of ten, MacTavish. Stealth approach. Nobody will suspect a thing.”
Another second passes. Then another. And then, like something finally clicks into place, not confidence, exactly; but momentum: he straightens just a bit.
Not perfect. Not smooth. But moving.
“Right,” he says quietly, more to himself than anyone. “Enough.”
He lifts his hand.
Knocks.
The sound echoes louder than it should. Or maybe that’s just how it feels.
And immediately, immediately, his entire brain panics:
[internal - Soap] Oh, you’ve done it now. No taking that back. Brilliant. Fantastic. Peak decision-making. What’s the plan? Do you have a plan? You do not have a plan.
He shifts on his feet, adjusting his grip on the flowers again like they might fly off if he doesn’t keep hold of them.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Hi,” he starts, voice coming out a fraction softer than usual, a little rough around the edges in a way that has nothing to do with anything physical.
He clears his throat, trying again, a nervous half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hi—uh—these are—” he lifts the bouquet slightly, then immediately winces at himself, “—obviously for you, I’m not just carrying them recreationally.”
[internal - Soap] Stellar. Nailed it. Truly a wordsmith.